


Alone Together

by esama



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Dragon Harry, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 133,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course Harry had thought about it, how cool it would've been to be able to transform into a dragon, but… not like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I, Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net around 2012  
> Proofread by Darlene

The crowd roared somewhere behind them, but Harry could barely hear. All notions of before, of being clever and fast and snatching the golden egg from right under the dragon's feet, faded away under the overwhelming panic. The Hungarian Horntail, roaring twice as hard as the crowd and infinitely more ferocious, had broken away from the arena and was now chasing after him with all the rage of a nesting mother with her eggs in danger. All Harry could think of was getting away and trying, against all odds, to stay alive.

Four years of magic and countless dangerous situations did not make him all that confident that he could. A troll he could handle, a basilisk, yes, wraiths and spirits and a runaway prisoner – even a werewolf. But there was something very different about all that and about having a seventy foot dragon chasing after him, a behemoth among creatures, big enough to make the insidiously deadly basilisk seem _minuscule_ in comparison.

It was rather like being chased by a mountain. A volcano on wings, roaring fire after him. And his flimsy broom, the expensive, top of the line Firebolt, so great and sturdy and fast before, seemed now weak and fragile and so very slow. The dragon was gaining on him with an ease any broom maker would've loved to manufacture, and with a horrible intent. It wasn't even trying to breathe fire on him anymore, no. It didn't want to burn him – it wanted to _eat_ him.

He really should've paid Hogwarts School motto more attention. Not that he had been tickling this particular dragon, of course.

Looking wildly over his shoulder, Harry had barely enough time to duck to the side and avoid the enormous maw with teeth that, from this angle, seemed bigger than he was. His heart pounding, he ducked fast to the side, circled around in hopes of confusing the dragon, and darted towards the Forbidden Forest, hoping against all hope that he could make it into the tree cover and hide. Or at least lose the dragon for a while, so that he could get something of a head start when the chase resumed. Anything.

If there was ever a time Harry would start to hate the magical world, this would be it. He hadn't wanted to get into this stupid tournament. Sure, the idea had been fascinating – but money, eternal glory, death defying trials? No, he didn't need any more of those, he had more than his fair share already. And yet, he had been put into the tournament anyway, a fourteen year old competing against seventeen year olds, three years worth of magical studies in between making the entirety of the affair less than fair.

The dragon roared, low and high at the same time, spitting fire and beating the air with massive wings. The sounds of the crowd – or any other sound except the roaring and the wind – were gone. The sound of Harry's heart made him nearly deaf to the roar, though, and the forest seemed unforgiving, being still so far away. Maybe he ought to duck under the Viaduct? The gaps between the legs of the bridge would be too small for the dragon to pass through; it might stop the beast for a moment… but no. Most likely the dragon would crash right into them, and then Harry would have to pay for the repairs.

That was, if he came out of the ordeal alive at all. He had considered it before, but now he was sure. Whoever had arranged his name to pop out of the Goblet of Fire had indeed wanted him dead. And they would most likely get their wish – if the dragon didn't kill him, then the second or third tasks would. After all, if they _started_ with dragons… he didn't even want to think what the other tasks would be. Wrestling Nundus and having staring matches with Dementors maybe.

Heat against the back of his robes was the first warning, and instinct of a Quidditch player as well as someone regularly in deathly situations made Harry drop like a stone, and out of the way of the barrage of flames. They still nearly licked the top of his head and as he, wide eyed and terrified, darted away again, he had to pat his hand over his hair to make sure it hadn't caught on fire. The dragon ducked right after him, now used to the quick turns Harry could take and unwilling to let him get away, and without any other means of escape, Harry continued to plummet towards the ground – to pull up would make him slow down, the dragon would catch him….

Bad idea. The dragon had some dozens of _tons_ of weight on him, and body designed for this sort of thing. In contest of falling, it won wings down, and crown of horns rattling, and only luck and some divine intervention made Harry's broom wobble enough that the tail end hit the dragon's snout, sending him off course and over the dragon's head, rather than directly into its mouth. What followed was less lucky, as Harry's broom crashed against the dragon's horns, and _shattered_ , bits flying away from Harry's hands under the force of the air rushing by, leaving him with only a broken handle to hold on to.

Whatever survival instinct made Harry reach out wildly and grasp a hold of whatever he could reach ended up probably saving his life, as he grabbed a hold of the dragon's numerous horns and barely managed to keep himself from flying off right after the bits of the Firebolt. Not that it made his situation any better. His broom was gone, and he was hanging onto a _feral, enraged dragon_ for dear life, and no, his situation was not good at all.

The dragon, noticing him there by some instinct or maybe by the feel of his weight, beat herself out of the dangerous plummet, and shook her head, roaring in anger. With nothing else to keep him from a deadly fall, Harry held on with all his might, letting out a grunt of pain as he was thrown to the side and right into one of the many horns, thanking his lucky stars that the horn in question was broken and dull and not razor sharp like most of them. So, instead of puncturing his lung, the impact only gave him bruises – and maybe a fractured rib or too, but he could live with that.

He couldn't live for long where he was. Already the dragon was ducking her head and lifted her foreleg, talons reaching for him to swat him off, probably mauling him in the process. Hurried and haphazard, Harry swung himself out of reach, sneakers slipping on the dragon's hide but still finding some purchase – the Horntail's hide was marked evenly with sharp and rough protrusions, making the hide seem almost scaled with what felt like rough stones, like badly made pavement. It was a very small blessing to find footing there, though, because soon the dragon was reaching with both front legs, talons scraping to get him, and it was only a matter of time until they would reach.

He needed to do something. But what?

Slipping into the crown of horns, hoping that they would shield him from the talons some, Harry pulled out the wand he had thrust into his pocket at the beginning of the chase. At least he still had that, he thought, though what good it did him, he had no idea. Dragons were immune to most magic – according to Charlie, the only magic that had any effect on a dragon was transfiguration, and that only because they could make chains and cages and whatnot appear and take form around the dragon. Spells cast directly at dragons were borderline useless – even something like the infamous Killing Curse would be nothing more to a dragon than what a bee-sting would be to a man.

Still, Harry had to try. Wild, he cast a stunning hex at one of the talons reaching for him, sending a blast of red from the tip of his wand. It made the talons falter a little, but nothing more. The blasting hex, which Harry had yet to fully master, did even less, hitting one of the horns instead and dying away without causing any damage. Cursing to himself, Harry tried again, any spell that came to mind – he even tried to levitate the reaching talons away, to no avail, until in his desperation he tried Lumos and then a hurried Nox as the light flashed, blinding, and made the dragon let out a startled sound.

For a moment, the dragon was still, wings beating on automatic as she confusedly shook her head. Then, as Harry wondered what he had done, the dragon let out an infuriated sound, shook her head harder, ands then gave up trying to claw Harry from her head. Instead, she set out in a violent flight, rolling from side to side, shaking herself hard and then, to Harry's amazement, going as far as turning upside down in midair in an attempt of shaking him off.

She was flying blind now, Harry realised. Whether it was the Lumos or the Nox that had caused it, he didn't know, but she was blinded. The pattern she flew in was haphazard and uncontrolled and as she twisted from side to side and let out small roars of anger, the wizard saw that they were not only getting closer to his goal – but flying right past it. Hogwarts, the Viaduct, the arena and everything else was left far behind as they flew, uncontrolled, over the Forbidden Forest.

Unbidden, a thought came to the frightened boy. He had wanted to hide in the trees, but the Firebolt was gone, broken. If he fell now – and survived somehow – how would he get back? Or worse what if they crashed and…. Well, the likelihood of him surviving a crash on board a behemoth of a dragon were pretty small. He could die. No, scratch that, he was going to die. And it would happen soon – not in some unforeseeable future, not in hour or in a day or a week, or during the second or third task, _now_ , probably within _minutes_.

He didn't want to die. He wanted to see Sirius again, to live with him. He wanted to tell Hermione thanks for helping with the task; if she hadn't forced him to learn Accio to summon his broom, he would've probably died already. He wanted to tell Skeeter off and tell Ron he was being a prat, and then forgive him because despite everything Ron was still his best mate, and he wanted to… he wanted to do so much more. He wanted to see foreign lands, and learn more magic and graduate and he wanted, he wanted….

He started casting spells again, now haphazard and only barely aware of what he was trying. Tripping and tickling hexes, one useless charm after another, most of the spells he had learned in Defence Against the Dark Arts, all useless, and finally spells he had only heard of but never managed to cast – never even tried to cast. The dragon was now tilting dangerously downwards and the tree tops were getting closer – and they were going fast, so bloody _fast_ , and Harry's grip on the horns was sweaty, barely holding on.

The dragon swung, and they were now heading head first towards an enormous ancient oak – if they hit it, the oak probably would give in before the dragon would but Harry would probably crash right into the tree or be thrown off, and the fall would, without any pain of doubt, kill him. A spell, any spell, magic had to be able to do something, he thought desperately, and tried and tried, with a need and urge and want he had never before pushed into a spell. Something _had to work_ , something Lupin or Moody had taught him, something had to make the dragon duck the tree, avoid it; all she had to do was just swing to the side, like she had done before, like she would've if she only could've seen the bloody tree…!

Letting out a confused sounding noise, the dragon ducked to the side. Harry, having not expected it at all, only barely managed to keep himself on the dragon's head as it sidled around the enormous oak, the tree's branches brushing hard along her neck and back and nearly taking Harry's arm off, but avoiding the complete impact. The dragon roared, as one of the branches broke and then gauged a long wound along her back, but didn't stop, couldn't stop. Now too busy trying to hold on, Harry didn't notice that the quick move had been only a faint, momentary victory because now the dragon was heading downwards at a sharp, terrifying angle.

The sight of the ground, a strange clearing in the middle of the forest, coming right at them froze Harry completely and he only hung there, hugging an enormous white horn of the dragon, and handle of his Holly wand digging into his palm painfully. His mind went completely blank with the upcoming disaster, no spells popped  into his head, no attempts to survive, nothing, he was completely unmoving and empty-headed for one crucial moment.

There were stones in the clearing, he could see. Enormous boulders, long and oddly shaped, in a circle of sorts. It reminded him a bit of the pictures he had once seen of Stonehenge. They were coming up fast.

That woke Harry only long enough for the panic to return with a vengeance, but he had only enough time to hold his wand, to open his mouth, no spell in mind only a terrified plea for _something_ that would do _anything_. The magic was alive and wild with his terror and desperation and that of the dragon, who seemed to sense the danger but was as helpless as Harry was to stop it, and together they crashed down, with the dragon's blood trickling down its neck and onto Harry's robes and Harry's terrified magic whirling feebly around them both.

The impact was earth shattering, but only lasted for a split second before everything faded to blissful darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

She was beautiful sitting there, in nothing, red hair floating like fire, green eyes glowing. "This isn't right," she said, and the words nearly made Harry crumble – they were not the ones he had hoped to hear his mother say to him, when he finally got the chance to see her.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed, reaching and lifting him up, up from the bottom of nothing and to her lap, really like a mother would've. "Many things go wrong right here. It wasn't meant to happen," she explained, pressing her lips to his cheek. "So many things. When the time comes I will wring Albus's neck for allowing you to be entangled in that tournament, it wasn't meant to be. For that matter, I will wring his neck for ever allowing the tournament to be played out the way it was at all – it was buried for a reason. And you, oh, you were never meant to fight dragons."

"I'm sorry," he answered, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was apologising for. Everything, maybe. Her death, his father's death, for the tournament and for the dragon, for crashing down and dying. He hadn't wanted to die. He didn't want to die, but here he was – and it was strange. He though he might be happy, seeing her. Maybe his father was there, too? And yet, like she said, it wasn't right. It felt… wrong.

"It's alright, sweetheart," she murmured, her arms warm around him. "It's not your fault." She sighed heavily and looked down at him, eyes compassionate and alight with warmth and knowledge. "You're not dead, sweetheart. But soon it will be as good as," she said, stroking a hand up and down his back. She let out a sound, mix between a chuckle and a snort. "You inherited your father's affinity for trouble. I don't know how good or a bad a thing that is – maybe without it, this would've never happened. Or maybe, you would've simply died. I suppose it doesn't matter."

"I'm not dead?" Harry asked, surprised.

"No. You are… lost, but not dead. Not yet," she agreed and sighed again, lifting her hand and stroking his cheek with her fingers. "I am not here," she said suddenly, making his stomach drop. "I'm a memory, sweetheart. Albus told you some, didn't he? In your first year. I am here," she placed her hand over his chest. "An imprint of myself in you. Accidental magic on my part, but powerful. I've been trying to look out after you. But I'll be gone soon, completely. It's all I can do to keep you alive, and it will wear me out completely. I imagine it will wear you out too."

"Mum," Harry whispered, not quite understanding, but feeling the truth in her worlds. He could feel it _in there_ , her emotions. And something else too, something in the back of his head. Something strange and foreign and yet growing more familiar. A change. "What will happen to me?"

She smiled, sad and solemn, and kissed his forehead. "The dragon and you crashed into an old magical site. It was made long before Hogwarts, long, long ago. I've only seen it once, during my seventh year as part of my Charms studies. Ancient Celts did magic there, or so people think nowadays. It is part of the reason why Hogwarts was build where it is – both the school and the site sit on magical hot spots of sorts," she said. "Magic like that never fades – the site is still what it was when it was built, it's just that for eons now no one has had any idea what it was for, exactly."

Harry said nothing, just closed his eyes and leaned his cheek on her shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was strange, but he wasn't scared. He was actually oddly reassured by the whole thing, but then, sitting in your mother's lap probably had that effect on everyone. Like there was nothing that could break through the secure protection of her arms, not yet, not for a while.

"Your magic, the dragon's blood, all that chaotic energy activated the site," she said then, her voice rumbling beneath his ear. "Not like it was supposed to, of course not, but something was opened and you… you fell into it, with the dragon." She shook her head and pulled back, to look at him. "I am drawing all the power I can to make sure you survive, to take you somewhere where you can live, where you will fit. It will drain me, it will probably drain your magic and the dragon too no doubt. But I don't know what's on the other side. I am trying, it might be something the same or different… or it might be nothing. _I don't know_."

Harry frowned and then nodded, looking down. "It's okay. Thank you for trying," he said quietly, looking at her hand on his chest. Her fingernails were pale, a little long. Pretty.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered and pulled him to her chest again. "I love you very much. Your father did too; you were the greatest source of pride in his life. Whatever happens, remember that, alright? Remember that and be strong. Live, however you can. For us."

He nodded, not quite sniffing but not far from it. His eyes were getting blurry. "I love you too, mum," he whispered brokenly into her chest, hugging her tight.

Then she was gone, and he was falling again.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry woke up to the smell of forest – moss and trees, leaves and pine needles and water. The dream of his mother was fading from his head, and for a split second his heart thumped wildly with the memory of falling to the circle of ancient stones, before he realised that he wasn't falling anymore – that he was still, lying on his side, and feeling heavy and clumsy. Alive, all in all.

He sighed heavily with relief, and then froze as the sigh brought forth the smell of ash and a small mist of smoke, that under his wide eyes slithered into the green foliage. His mind sat still for a long moment just staring, confused and uncomprehending, before he dared to carefully lift his head a little. It was a heavy, clumsy move, and nearly sent him falling to his side again as what should've been a simple, small shift, brought his head several feet up, and to the level of the lowest tree branches.

Harry didn't get the time to try and figure out what that meant, exactly, when he felt something on his neck dislodge and slither down. Reflex made him lift his hand – or what he thought was his hand anyway – and stop the fall of the strange, loose object. As it halted by the crook of his arm, he looked down, and stared.

There, on the forearm of a dark, scaly arm, lay his own lifeless body, looking impossibly small and fragile and half broken, loose limbed and lax in his unconsciousness. And yet, the arm, the _foreleg_ , cradling the body felt like _it_ was _his_ , while the body lying there, in his champion's robes with half bent glasses loosely hanging on his nose, felt like a foreign object.

Harry stared, and then, hardly daring to move, lowered the forearm and the body on it, carefully easing the limp form to the mossy ground. He had no way of knowing if the body was alive or unconscious and what it all meant – because, as slowly as his mind was turning, he did understand this. It was strange, impossible, _incredible_ , but he was somehow….

Or maybe he wasn't. He had no way of knowing – he couldn't see himself. Looking down to the foreleg, Harry gazed up and down it. Talons, those he knew, they had tried to kill him. And the rough scaling, like shapely but sharp rocks in a neat pattern, he had scampered over it what felt like a little while ago. And the forearm gave way to an elbow and upper arm and shoulder, and as Harry watched, horrified and fascinated and still curiously quiet-minded, his head turning in an odd angle that felt strange and natural all at once, he saw them. The wings, one lying a little loose on his other side, other sitting tucked almost neatly to his side and between them a long bloody gouge, no longer bleeding but immensely more painful now that he was aware of it.

But he couldn't look away from the wings, which shuddered as he stared at them, and what felt like a lightning bold ran through Harry. In an awkward move he was suddenly on his feet, wings shaking, tail curling out from where it had dug in, halfway buried in moss. There were branches and dirt stuck in the spikes of his tail, the longest end spike that gave Hungarian Horntails their name having skewered what looked like a small tree trunk.

A Hungarian Horntail, Harry thought, standing there on what felt like on his feet and palms and yet not because in a dragon's body it was a natural way to stand. He _was_ the Hungarian Horntail. The beast that had been chasing him, trying and nearly succeeding at killing him… he _was_ the dragon! And his own body was, was….

 Harry turned to look down again, to the loose form lying on the forest floor, so tiny, smaller than a mouse from this perspective. He swallowed, a cold feeling uncurling in his stomach, and lowered his head for a closer look. Was he dead? Had his mind somehow jumped from one body to another? What had his mother said in the dream – he couldn't remember, something about the dragon fading, and yet… that was his body, plain and simple, lying there. Glasses and scar and all. The wand was gone, though, as were all the fragments of his Firebolt, and yet it was him.

And yet he was the dragon?

Feeling dizzy with the sheer strangeness of his own thoughts, Harry lay back down, letting out an inhuman grunt as he did. He couldn't think; all his thoughts could do were hopelessly flitter around what he was seeing and not quite believe it. He felt _so strange_ , big and clumsy and heavy and just foreign. He could feel the wings, the tail, he could almost move them, and it felt so odd. His _neck_ felt unnaturally long, his face strange. And as he moved his tongue, it was a strange feeling, made only stranger by the enclosure of fangs around it.

Was he dead? Was he alive? He wasn't sure. He felt alive, but his body was… not his, and his own was on the ground – and he didn't dare to touch it, not to even check if it was even _alive_ because he was so big now, he had _talons_ and _horns_ , and what if he accidentally killed himself with one wrong stroke of his hand – his foreleg? Forepaw? Whatever it was.

Confused and suddenly feeling very alone, Harry lowered his head beside the body lying on the moss, and whined. It was a low, rough sound, and it released another cloud of dark smoke into the air, washing over the pale face of the small human form on the ground – and only in hindsight, Harry remembered how bad dragon breath had smelled, like sulphur and fire and burning, and hurriedly he lifted his head, not wanting to breath on the body again because what if the body breathed in, and choked on the dragon breath?

The moment of panic was sharp and strong – and ended abruptly, as his vision split apart and he started to cough. Harry flailed, confused, because he was coughing and there was the smell of sulphur he had feared, and yet he _wasn't_ at the same time. And suddenly, he could feel the moistness of the ground seeping through his _robes_ , that he had a bruise on his side, and how was that possible, because dragons couldn't wear robes, and he hadn't been bruised – except there was the gauge on his back, and he felt that too, that and the bruise and the fact that he had lost a shoe somewhere and –

Harry opened his eyes – even while his eyes were already open. His vision was perfect and yet it was also blurry, his glasses were askew, crooked. He straightened them, confused and grateful that, though the metal was bent from the middle, at least the glasses hadn't cracked. Then looked up _and_ down at himself.

In a moment of strange double vision, the wizard and the dragon stared at each other and, somehow, Harry was _both of them_ all at once.

He gasped and growled through two different mouths, and suddenly the aches and pains made themselves felt. His side hurt just below his arm, his back hurt just between his wings, his head hurt, his stomach hurt, his joints and his bones ached as two bodies worth of pains assaulted him. Groaning through two mouths, one soft and another rough and inhuman, Harry curled in on himself. He had hit his head on something and the feel of blood in his hair was the last thing the human body felt, before it fell into unconsciousness again, hurting too much to manage.

Suddenly, Harry was _one_ again, the dragon only. Swallowing and faltering, Harry lifted his Horntail's head from where he had tucked it in pain, under his wing, and looked down at the human body, now lying on its side, curled up.

He still didn't quite know what was going on, or how it had happened – or how in Merlin's name it was possible – but one thing was sure. He was in trouble. Lots and lots of trouble. Not just as a dragon and as a human, but as _him_ , because he was two and one and all the while his human body probably had a concussion and while he didn't know much about medicine, he could guess how bad that was. He had no idea what he could do to help himself, but at least he was still, somehow, conscious enough to try.

Now a little less afraid of touching his own human body, Harry gently pried it off the ground with as careful a move as he could manage, and lifted the body – and quite a bit of moss and dirt with it – back to his front leg. The forest floor was cold and moist, and probably not good for a concussed human, he reasoned, and awkwardly supported the limp body into the crook of his elbow, where it would stay warm. He even went as far as to try and unfold his wing to work as a shelter from the cool air. It wasn't much, but maybe… maybe it would keep him from dying of cold, or getting one, or something, anything.

He did it just in time – just a moment later the heavy clouds above, which he hadn't even noticed so far, broke open and it started to rain.

 

* * *

 

 

When Harry woke up, it was as a human. Blinking through the darkness and the pain twisting through his head, he stared at the murky brown enclosure where he lay, only belatedly realising that he was staring at the chest of the Hungarian Horntail, then at the wing which lay over him like a lopsided, living tent. Looking down he could see some of the ground – and there, the snout of the dragon, with heavy puffs of heated air rushing out of large nostrils at steady intervals. The dragon, he realised and remembered, had laid there, immobile in the rain, for hours before tucking his head down beneath his wing, and going to sleep as well, too pained and exhausted to stay awake.

The dragon, who was _him_ , just as he was _him._

Groaning softly, Harry lifted his hand and ran it over his hair, over the wound. He had probably hit his head on one of the dragon's horns while falling – that was at least what it felt like. His hair was crusted with dried blood but it didn't seem wet anymore – the bleeding had stopped. The pain was still sticking around, both on his head and on his side, making his bones ache all over and draining him of his energy, but at least he didn't feel nauseous – or like he was about to die. He tentatively took that as a good sign and closed his eyes, willing the pain to leave him be for long enough for him to think.

For a moment he thought of the fight, the first task, the tournament – the circle of stones and the odd dream where his mother had told him that she'd drain out herself to save him. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but something was… different. Beyond the obvious, he added to himself and looked down at the dragon – which now didn't seem any more dangerous than a statue would've, even less though. The dragon felt, actually, comfortable. Familiar. _Right_.

But how? He had no idea. His mind flittered over the things he had read about magic, about werewolves and animagi and none of it explained this. Something about Voldemort nagged at him, and he thought of Quirrell and Voldemort in the back of his head and, no, that wasn't right either. Voldemort the ghost and the man and the diary, something like that maybe, because Tom Riddle the teenager had been in the diary and _a living wizard_ at the same time, so was that it? Was the dragon now like Harry's Diary?

No. No, that wasn't it, because the diary had been just that, and even less, immovable and helpless and even after draining Ginny dry the best the diary had been able to do was produce a wraith of a man. The dragon – and Harry himself – was solid, secure, and alive. Very, _very_ much alive, he thought, listening to the heavy drum of the dragon's heart, pounding a steady beat just beside him, deep in the dragon's chest. _His_ chest.

He really wished someone could've explained it all to him, because no matter how he turned it in his head, it made no sense to him. Well, some sense, but still, how? Magic, obviously, maybe his mother if that had even been real, and maybe the circle of stones?

The circle. Opening his eyes, Harry blinked and then glanced around. The circle, he remembered that, and what his mother had said about it in his dream. Something about Celts and magic and that something had been opened. Harry had gotten the impression of a hole, of falling through nothingness – and hadn't his mother said that she didn't know what was on the other side?

Harry knew now. There was a forest, moss, rain, normal things. And yet, somewhere in the back of his head or maybe in the back of his spine, somewhere where people felt things without being able to explain, he felt it wasn't normal. It was different, very very different. Something was missing – and yet not, not missing. Something had never been there.

Swallowing back a whimper of pain, Harry turned where he lay and then slowly slid down from the enormous forearm of a dragon, which had served as his rough bed. As he did the dragon stirred, and Harry was no longer one but _two_ again, and yet he was only spread farther, rather than split in two. One consciousness in two bodies. As he opened his closed eyes, the double vision struck again, and yet his thoughts didn't change, there was no _other mind_.

He wasn't sure if he had even feared that there might be – that somehow he was split in two, still somehow in bond with each other, but different. It wasn't like that. Before he had been in too much pain to realise, but even while looking through two sets of eyes, one human and blurry, the other dragon and so very sharp, he was still just him. Him, as he had always been, and yet also more.

It was difficult, though – it was like someone had knocked him over the head and now his eyes were looking in two different directions, and he couldn't decide which one to give more attention to. It was dizzying, to have two sets of things he saw, even if they were so similar, confusing. For a moment he tried to make sense of it, tried to look at the two things all at once, but his head started to hurt until he saved himself the trouble, and closed his human eyes.

His dragon eyes, he was quickly realising, were much better. His dragon awareness was better too, but that was mostly because of the size – he had more to feel with. The rain was over, but the air was cool now, it was getting late, and dark. As he carefully unwound his wings from where he had unfolded them, into a shelter over both of himself, the air rushed forward into what had been pleasantly heated private space, and made his human body shiver. The dragon was better equipped to handle it – with fire burning away in its chest, warming it.

Except, it wasn't an _it_ , was it? No. The dragon was a _she_. A mother of a clutch of eggs, even, except the eggs weren't there.

That was bit too much oddity for him to handle, and Harry was quick to push the thought away. Instead he concentrated on himself. His human body curled back into the dragon one, seeking warmth against what felt like a late November night in Scotland and, maybe, even might've been.

Ignoring the human body, because it was too distracting to keep track of them both at once, Harry looked up through dragon eyes, taking a closer look at the forest. The trees around him were mostly oaks, birches, ashes and whatnot. Familiar trees – the sort of trees the Forbidden Forest was full of. Maybe, he thought with a sudden burst of anxious hope, he _was_ in the Forbidden Forest after all. Hogwarts was just a little further away, all he would have to do was to go there, and they would be able to sort everything out. He'd be him again, and the dragon would… what? Die?

In his draconic form, Harry shifted a little. He had only been in it for a little while, but it felt… comfortable. Not quite natural, but not bad either – nothing like taking polyjuice or being transfigured into something, no. The body felt like it was _his_. He didn't know it, not at all, but he could feel it. The weight of his tail, the bone of the sharp horn – the horns on top of his head too – and his wings, they all felt like _him_. A very strange him, but him nonetheless. The idea of it being killed, _him_ being….

Except, it wasn't him. He was Harry James Potter, a wizard, a human. He needed to hold onto that. He didn't want to be a dragon. Right. Except of course he had thought about it when he had learned about Animagi, how cool it would've been, to be able to transform into a dragon or griffin or something, but… not like this. This was too confusing. He couldn't… work properly, like this.

Besides he was hurting, tired, his bones ached and he was hungry – in both bodies, human more than the dragon. He wanted out of the forest and into a bed, he wanted Madam Pomfrey's healing potions and he wanted to go to sleep and rest until everything made sense again. Yeah, that sounded about right.

With that thought, Harry decided to try and see if he could find his way to Hogwarts. Or maybe Hogsmeade. Or if he could find a centaur or something, that would work, too. He was getting nowhere, sitting there, doing nothing, he needed to get going. With that decided, he concentrated on his human body long enough to crawl his way up to his dragon body's neck, where he sat, shivering with cold and pain but somewhat secure. Then, concentrating onto his dragon body, he carefully stood up. Flying would've been wicked, but he didn't dare to try it, not with his own body being too weak to hold on, not without getting some safe practice first.

He probably never would, if he found Hogwarts, though. Everything would be sorted out and he'd be human and only human once more.

Maybe, anyway. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

 

* * *

 

He walked for hours and hours, thanking every step of the way that his draconic eyesight was so much better than the human one, and he could still see fairly well in the faint light – especially when the clouds broke open enough to reveal the stars beyond. That was about all he had to be thankful for, though. His draconic body was big and clumsy even after he figured the trick of holding his tail a little up to balance his head and keep it from dragging in the foliage – he kept walking into trees, making a couple of them nearly fall, and getting branch splinters all over his hide.

In the end, though, he had to give up. His human body got tired fast and could barely stay awake until it became too much – he got too scared that his human body would just fall asleep and then fall off and damage itself. So he stopped, settled down so that he could get some rest, and time to think.

He was getting worried, though. He had been walking what felt like all night, and he hadn't seen any sign of anything familiar. No centaurs, no unicorns, no gigantic spiders, nothing. Not even any tracks in the forest. And the forest itself, once he got used to the new perspective of a dragon, seemed wrong - too small, too young, too wild. The Forbidden Forest was ancient, lofty, and dark, the trees so tall that they shed shadows on everything below them. In the Forbidden Forest, there was no undergrowth because the light barely got through the treetops. Here it was nothing like that, and even the oldest trees seemed young in comparison to what he had learned to expect from the forests around Hogwarts.

He was also hopelessly lost and suspected that he had been walking around in circles. That itself wasn't too bad – at least it had given him the chance to get used to walking around as a dragon. There was still a chance he could find out more other ways. For one, he could try flying – it shouldn't be that hard. All he needed to do was leave the human body on the ground, that way there was no danger of him falling. Then there were the mountains around him – he could climb them, and get a better look from the top. As a dragon, it didn't seem such a long way to climb too. And finally, there was the BlackLake. If he could find that, he could find Hogwarts.

But for now he needed rest. Not his dragon body, that one could've kept on, but his human body was still not well and probably wouldn't be for a while. It was a strange feeling, to be held back by _himself_ like that, though no less strange than it was to be _stronger_ than himself all the while. The whole thing was just bizarre, and what his own confusion had made easy to accept was now becoming just too strange, and all the more strange with each moment he spent considering it.

But that was starting to be a lesser concern, as was the fact that he did not know the forest where he was lost. The biggest concern was that no one had come for him. There he was, walking around as a great big beast, and he had yet to see anyone. Not to mention about the tournament – he had been fighting with a dragon in front of an audience of hundreds, and yet, after he and the dragon had run off, no one had come to find him, not even the staff? It was worrying.

Especially so, since he was starting to have a small, nagging suspicion about why that was – and he didn't much like it. The forest was different, and everything felt odd – like something he was used to being there wasn't. It was like some flavour of air or sensation of gravity was gone – and the more he thought about it, the more he feared that that something was simply _magic_. He had never felt magic, not as a constant presence, but he could feel its absence. Of course, it could be that his own magic was drained – his mother had said, after all. Or it could be that being split between two bodies had just messed up whatever sixth sense he had… but he couldn't encourage himself by telling himself that that was it. No. He couldn't feel the echoing feel, unspeakable and indefinable but usually so present, anywhere – not the ground, not the air, not the plants. Nowhere.

Too mentally worn to worry, he sighed, wrapped his wings around both of himself, and laid his head down. He wasn't tired, but he could sleep while his other body recovered. Maybe afterwards things would make more sense.


	2. Part I, Chapter II

Harry dreamed of a dragon – the dragon he was but wasn't. Unlike in the dream where his mother had appeared, this time he was certain right away that it was a dream, instead of having to realise it later on – it was like realising gravity or air, it just was and he knew it instantly. It didn't make the dream any easier, though, because he dreamed of the dragon that had been, the mind of the original Horntail.

She was confused, hovering in nothingness, beating her wings unsurely every now and then. Harry was sure that if she had stopped beating her wings, she would've still been floating, but she wasn't used to that so she kept at it, more for comfort's sake than because of anything else.

"It's alright," he offered, and the dragon turned to look at him, making a faint whimpering sound which, in the silence of the nothingness, sounded more like a muffled roar, suppressed in her breast. Immediately Harry realised that, of course, it wasn't alright for her. She was gone, after all. Her body was now, strangely, his.

"Well," he amended. "Maybe not. But you're not in pain anymore, or anything like that. Or lost, the way I am," he added, stepping closer. He wasn't sure what he was doing, or why he wanted to console the beast – it couldn't make much  of a difference at this point, and the dragon wasn't exactly intelligent. He had known it before and he knew it even better now – all she cared about was food, her children and her territory. Harry, and being lost somewhere in between worlds, was far beyond her understanding – all she really knew was that he had been an extremely irritating and bold prey, and now wasn't.

She was scared of him.

"I'm sorry," he offered, and before he could say or try anything else, she was fading away.

Harry woke up to a gasp and a shrill scream, both of him jerking awake. He nearly ended up banging the back of his head into a near by tree, and falling off from the dragon's forearm, before reality managed to sort itself out enough for him to remember who and what he was, and where. Then, as the screaming cut off abruptly, he looked in the direction it had came from, to find a girl, a couple years his elder, standing there, with her face pale and eyes wide and a basket of mushrooms lying at her feet. She looked ready to faint.

"Oh," Harry said, through both mouths, though it sounded more like a soft, inquisitive growl coming from the dragon-him. The girl paled even further, shaking where she stood, and quickly Harry rolled off the dragon's foreleg, holding his hands up. His head began immediately to pound with the double vision and remainder of his concussion, and there was a throbbing pain at his side, but he ignored it all. "Please, please, calm down," he said, and it was a very odd sound that came out because while he said it, he also growled it, unable to set the barrier between one body and another and ending up speaking – or trying to – through both.

The girl let out a breathless, terrified sound. Then she turned around and was suddenly gone before Harry got another word through, vanished into the bushes, into the forest. Left behind, both of him stared at where she had stood, too surprised to do much more than that. After a moment his both sets of eyes flicked down to the discarded basket of mushrooms that lay on the moss – standing in testimony to the fact that the girl had been there, and that he had not imagined it.

"Okay then," he muttered, growled, and lowered his hands, still held up in placating motion. For a moment he looked down at the mushrooms, lying in the moss, trying to think about what to do – call after her, _run_ after her, or do nothing? Maybe gather the mushrooms she had left behind? He mulled it over for a while before grimacing and rubbing a hand along the side of his head, where the ache that was making it so hard to think was centred. It wasn't so overwhelmingly numbing anymore but it was maybe a little worse because of it – it was now a small cluster of pain, a concentrated ache just at the wound, throbbing with his each heart beat.

He would probably get in trouble for letting the girl go – if she was a muggle and she probably was, judging by her reaction. But he was in no condition to chase after her. Maybe as a dragon, but… no. The wound on his back – his _other back_ – felt pretty much the same as the one on his head, and glancing up – and behind – he decided he didn't really want to risk it. He hadn't paid much attention to it, aside from haphazardly making sure that he wouldn't bleed to death - and he wasn't going to; the wound, relative to the Hungarian Horntail's size, was small and probably wouldn't even leave much of a scar. Pain in a draconic body was easier to ignore too, the hide was tough and the wound, which had seemed so deep in the beginning, looked rather shallow now. But it was still a long and impressive cut, and held shut only by the dried blood. If he went about running….

He was too tired to start a chase anyway. Tired and miserable. He knew he ought to, he really did, it was his duty as a wizard to make sure that the Statute of Secrecy was kept – but… at that moment he didn't really care as much as he probably ought to. His head ached too much, too insistently.

Maybe, if the girl went about babbling about a dragon in the woods, people would react like, well, people usually did – and laugh at her day dreaming?

Sighing and looking away, trying to ignore how it still felt like someone had knocked him over the head too many times, Harry looked where the girl had vanished. His memory of her was already fading, the encounter had been too fast and sudden, but he got the impression that she had been wearing a dress, maybe an apron too….

Trying to recall exactly how the girl had looked didn't help at all with his headache, and rubbing his hand over his face Harry suddenly felt hungry, cold, and that he really ought to relieve himself. Also, he felt something else. Hungry, but even more so and differently, more deeply, urgently. He felt stiff on top of it, crowded in, stuck somehow, and rather like he really ought to stretch himself. And yet, all the while, he felt fatigue and an ache in all his bones and the very notion of stretching, and maybe making the ache on his side worse, made him feel a little ill.

Trying to separate one set of feelings in one body took a bit of trying, until he figured it out. His human body was hungry and had a full bladder, his dragon body was _ravenous_ , his human body was achy and stiff, while his dragon body felt like stretching its wings, its tail, having grown stiff over night. Not quite sure what to do about it all, he decided to tackle one issue at a time, and staggered towards a near by bush, to empty his bladder.

That feeling, at least, doing something so physical with one body didn't transmit onto the other – thank Merlin.

With that taken care off, Harry cleaned his hands, as best as he could, on the moist moss a little further away, before turning to his other body. He could do little about the hunger – except maybe eating himself and the even though the thought was quick to flitter through his head, morbid and curiously emotionless, it didn't have much purchase on his tired mind and was gone as soon as he was finished thinking it. He didn't want to stretch the dragon's wings either – he did, the urge to do so was there, but at the same time he figured it was best he didn't. The dragon was huge, after all, and the wings would make it – her – even more so, and if the girl ran to other people, if there were other people around… they might be able to see the wings from afar.

One muggle girl talking about seeing a dragon was just that, and could probably be glossed over, but if there was a group of them, and all of them saw it….

They might be able to see the dragon just as she was, though. And if they were muggles… well, he had gotten into enough trouble, with muggles seeing things they ought not to. The thing with Mr. Weasley's car had very nearly gotten him and Ron kicked out of Hogwarts – he didn't want to know what the showing of a dragon would get him. Some time spent in Azkaban, perhaps.

Not knowing what else to do, but knowing that sitting around and doing nothing was definitely not it, Harry decided to leave. Last thing he wanted was to still be there, if the girl brought more with her. Of course, she might never return, she had been scared enough to avoid the entire forest in the future, but he didn't want to risk it.

So, awkward and stiff and hurting and really starting to feel hungry, Harry walked to his dragon self. It was easier to climb onto the dragon's back this time, with his human head being a little clearer, and the boundaries between one body and the other a little better defined. It was still hard to look with both sets of eyes at once, and occasionally when one moved, the other twitched in an attempt to follow the motion, but aside from that he was almost getting the hang of it – both moving one body separate from the other, and moving them both at the same time, but in different ways. It was… odd, a little difficult and took more attention than moving should've, but he could, with some success, lift his human body up with his dragon body's front hand, and up to the dragon's back.

After finding a position on the Hungarian Horntail's neck, where the ridge of horns wasn't as severe as it was on the crown of her head, Harry took a firm hold of the nearest spike and sat there, secure, while standing up as the dragon. There was a moment of confusion about which way to go, how to step – now that both bodies were clear headed, he was also looking with both eyes, and it took a split second to figure out the right perspective for moving as a dragon. He resolutely didn't close his human eyes though, only concentrated both sets ahead and begun moving.

Harry didn't know why, but he had a feeling that he needed to figure out the double vision soon – if he kept having to shut one body's senses as best he could to manage even with one of them properly, it would make him slow and clumsy. And two sets of eyes were better than one, if he would soon have a horde of monster-hunting muggles after him.

 

* * *

 

 

In the light of the early afternoon, the forest was nice to look at – cold, sure, but also vibrantly green and glimmering with the remains of the morning fog. Had the circumstances been different, Harry might've really enjoyed it – he had never really just walked in a forest, taking in the smells and sights and just enjoyed the moment. Actually, he had never really walked in a forest, period, and the times spent in the ForbiddenForest couldn't be counted, as they were either detentions or him getting into or out of trouble.

But the circumstances were as they were, and he couldn't stop to look at this cluster of mushrooms or that bush of berries, and instead kept going without having any idea about _where_ he was going. The thought of finding Hogwarts or Hogsmeade was fading – the woods around him were so obviously _not_ the ForbiddenForest that the anticipation of stumbling into the familiar yard had died a very quick death some time ago – but he still had some hope. Maybe he'd find something else, someone else. Maybe, just maybe, he might even find people who were trying to find _him_.

Maybe if he kept thinking that, the doubt wouldn't have as big a hold on him. And he doubted with all the ferocity of a fourteen year old boy and who knew how old dragon – after all, no one had found him _yet_ , and magic had some very neat ways of finding people. Whether it was because he was so badly lost that they couldn't use those ways or because no one was simply looking for him, he didn't really know, and tried not to think too hard. Trying to hold onto the hope was difficult, but it felt better.

Some time after waking up to the girl's shrill scream and seeing her flee, Harry was roused from the stupor of his thoughts and the attention he was paying to the forest by a quick shadow passing over him, like a bird's but much bigger. Looking up first with his human eyes, then with his dragon eyes which he had realised were much better at distances, he peered above him. Somewhere in his mind, hope flared. Was it the shadow of people on brooms, or maybe on winged horses like the ones Beauxbatons used, maybe even hippogriffs? Had he been finally found?

For a long moment, he saw nothing in the sky, just clouds and a sliver of blue sky beyond the tree branches. Stopping completely and growing still, he listened. He could hear something. An odd rhythmic whooshing noise, one, two, three, then a break and again, almost like –

A shadow passed over him again, and this time he saw the dark shape casting it. It was enormous, with wings spread far and wide, gliding in the air, and between those wings was a body that most definitely belonged to no horse, and not a hippogriff either. It was too long, head outstretched too far, tail far, far too long. A _dragon's_ body.

Had the other dragons escaped from the tournament too? Frowning Harry shielded his eyes from the light, trying to get a clearer look. He had been so concentrated on the Hungarian Horntail that he had completely forgotten about the others. What had they been, a Chinese Fireball had been one of them….

The shadow passed over him again – and with a jolt of his stomach he realised it was circling right above him. There was a glint of something on the shadow's side – but before he could try and get a better look, the shape had circled out of view again. Above him, he could hear roaring, definitely a dragon's roar even if he didn't have much to compare it to, and then, from a distance, an answer.

Harry had a sudden, panicked thought. Obviously the other dragons had escaped too. Were they hunting the one he now _was_? The Hungarian Horntail had been the biggest, meanest and ugliest of the bunch – maybe it, she, had hurt the others somehow and they were seeking revenge. Could dragons think like that, like people? Did it matter?

Hearing yet another call, a different one from the first two, Harry decided that no, it really didn't matter. What mattered was getting away, far away, before they could descend upon him.

Turning his draconic eyes ahead and starting to run, despite the fact that he didn't quite know _how_. It wasn't like running as a human – too many legs, too weird a pace, even if his body did seem to know what it was doing. Dragons, though, were obviously not made _runners_ , the gait was lopsided thanks to too big hind legs and not so great front legs, but he did his best. In the back of his head, the morbid realistic side of him that had been doubtful about all his hopes, was pointing out that obviously he had no hope of _outrunning_ a bunch of _flying_ dragons, but he ignored it and tried it anyway.

It wasn't like he could do much else, after all. The Hungarian Horntail was entirely too big for him to attempt hiding, and the dragons circling above him obviously knew exactly where he was – and were following him easily. Through the forest, past a crowd of young trees and then, much to Harry's dismay, right into a large clearing, where there had apparently been a fire or something some years back and trees had yet to grow back.

He tried to duck back into the forest and the cover of the trees, figuring that the other dragons could not land there, when one of them came down at an alarming pace, wings beating the air into disarray and making the tree branches shudder violently. It came down to the clearing with a heavy noise, calling something as it did. Harry, too shocked by the sheer size of the beast and the fact that it was most certainly not one of the dragons from the tournament, completely missed what the dragon said.

The dragon was much bigger than the Hungarian Horntail which, Harry secretly admitted to himself, he had thought was probably one of, if not _the,_ largest dragons in the world. He was obviously wrong, though, because this dragon, red and orange and _fiery_ in colour, was longer, thicker, and all around more impressive, so big that it made the clearing look crowded and small. But what was more shocking and so confusing that Harry missed what the dragon said yet again, was what it was _wearing_.

There was an elaborate harness of some sort around the dragon's body, with thick bands of leather going around its chest and over the back, with loops and chains and whatnot going over the ridged back and towards the long tail – and under the belly, where there was a net and some sort of enclosure of leather. There was another enclosure, rather like a lopsided tent, on top of the dragon's back too. And what was more, there were _people_ in the harness. They looked tiny there, hanging onto the harness and sitting at the base of the neck – probably much like his own human body looked on the Hungarian Horntail's neck – but they also looked very… comfortable. Adjusted to it.

Like the whole thing wasn't something out of a fantasy.

"Portland, I think this dragon might not understand English," the dragon in front of Harry spoke in a deep, resounding voice which, oddly enough, sounded feminine. It, no, _she_ , turned her head, glancing back towards one of the men on her harness.

Harry gaped, his draconic mouth falling open and his human hands almost slipping from where they clutched onto the horns, as finally the fact that the dragon was _speaking_ in perfect, understandable words penetrated his first shock. A dragon, a _huge dragon_ , with a harness and what looked like a couple _dozen_ riders – and _speaking English_?

"What?" he murmured to himself, growling unintelligibly as he said it, and made the other dragon snap her gaze back at him.

"Ahoy there!" a male voice called from the other dragon's back, through a speaking trumpet or something like that judging by how loudly it came over the distance. Then, confusing Harry only more, the man said something in French, demanding to know something judging by the tone.

No idea what to answer – or how, there was so much distance in between – Harry hesitated, balancing on the tip of turning tail and running, and staying around and trying to figure out what was going on. The other dragons – smaller than the one before him, or so he hoped anyway – were still circling above him and the other dragon with its riders, and if he left they would be able to follow him again easily. So would the big behemoth too, probably, even if she had to take down some trees to do it.

Finally, as the man roared some more French at him, Harry decided that by running away he would probably only prolong the inevitable. Beside, as the disbelief at seeing a dragon bearing people faded, he was getting curious. He had of course dreamed, just like every boy at Hogwarts did at the first mention of dragons, about riding one of the beasts, but he had never expected to see it happen. Even the… thing with the Hungarian Horntail hadn't really changed that, because the whole thing was just too weird to really consider – and probably temporary, so he had tried to not get used to it like that.

Dragons were untameable, after all - try riding one and you'd probably get eaten. And yet, this dragon didn't seem at all bothered, or like she was about to eat anything, and the people on her back and stomach and sides seemed to be perfectly at ease there – one of them was climbing down along her side and she didn't even seem to notice. He wanted to know how it was possible. How she was speaking, who the people were, why they were speaking French at him – and where were they, anyway?

With his decision made, Harry started sliding down from his back, lifting the Hungarian Horntail's arm to slide to, and then lowering it so that he could climb down. He was relieved to see that the nonverbal move had been taken well, and that some of the men were coming down from the great dragon's back, climbing down smoothly and with practiced ease, easier than any mountain climber Harry had ever seen on telly.

They came forward and, a little hesitant, Harry stepped away from the shadow of the Horntail. He belatedly realised that he probably should've taken off his robe or something – it was a very wizardly thing to wear – but it was too late, and besides, the robe was so stained with mud, rainwater and dragon blood, all mixed and dried up to give it odd, camouflage type of colouring, that it was probably hard to tell _what_ it was.

It became something of a moot point as he saw what the men were wearing – their clothing looked like something out of a historical documentary, with goggles, leather hoods and leather coats thrown over. And they were all carrying swords and pistols – and one of them had a rifle slung over his shoulder.

The man in the lead, looking very formidable with a scowl and a hand on his pistol, said something in French and Harry blinked. Casting an awkward glance at the Horntail and then determinately biting the dragon's teeth together in a faint hope of not growling while talking, Harry looked at the men. "I don't… speak French," he said, nearly stopping in mid sentence, as the words threatened to come out as a muffled growl out of the dragon's throat, but managing to suppress the sound. Even if only barely.

"Oh, you are English after all," the man in lead said, and stood a little straighter. "What is your name, boy, and where, _how_ –" the man glanced up to the Hungarian Horntail. He didn't seem to know how the word the question.

Harry opened his mouth to answer and stopped when he accidentally also drew a breath as a dragon. He had, almost, figured out the double vision thing – it wasn't so bad if he looked almost the same direction with both eyes, a little disorienting but he was getting used to it. Moving was easy too, it was so different in both bodies that he could move one without also moving the other. But speaking was different – more a reflex than a move – and he couldn't really _feel_ it before he was already doing it. It was harder to separate one body from another in speech – except by the sound of it, and of course the dragon body _couldn't_ speak, so all it managed was growling and snarling.

Harry swallowed, glancing at himself and concentrating onto keeping his draconic body quiet, while the men before him exchanged looks. Then, almost biting the dragon's forked tongue, he tried again. "My name is Harry," he said, and then, as the dragon body only made a muffled grunt along the words and he started to figure out the trick of speaking without growling, he continued. "Harry Potter. Um. Sir," he added, a little awkwardly, because the people in front of him looked a little like the military, and he really didn't want to offend someone who flew on a dragon _bigger_ than the Horntail. Not that he would've wanted to do it, even if the other dragon had been smaller.

The men exchanged looks again, and then the first one took a step forward, waited glancing up to the Horntail, and then took another, bending down a little to meet Harry's eyes, giving his crooked glasses a curious look. "Well then, Mr. Potter, my name is Dennis Chapman, and these are Edward Patel and Timothy Roberts," the man said, now sounding a little warmer and a little less like Harry had done something wrong. "Can you tell me about the dragon?"

Harry frowned, and glanced between his bodies again. Then he looked at the man, considering. He didn't look like a wizard, none of the men did, they even had _guns_ and _swords_ , something no wizard would've bothered with. The doubtful voice in the back of Harry's mind was throwing cynical cartwheels of triumph – it had been right. "No," Harry said finally and shook his head. He couldn't speak of magic and the thing, whatever it was, that made Harry capable of having two bodies like he did, not to muggles. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Okay then," Chapman said slowly, and suddenly Harry got the impression that the man probably thought that he was a simpleton. "Does the dragon have a name?" the man asked, before Harry could figure out what to do about that.

"Um," the wizard answered. What a weird question to ask, he thought, and looked at his other body. Did it need a name – did dragons have names? If it did, Harry had no idea what it was, no way of finding out. He couldn't figure out how it mattered though, what the dragon's name was. Weren't there other more important things to worry about? Except, it obviously mattered to these people, for some weird reason.

"Horntail?" Harry finally offered, when the man didn't retract the question or ask another. "Can you tell me where I am?" he asked then, before the man could ask something else, like, where the dragon had been born – which Harry definitely didn't know, somewhere in Romania maybe.

"You're about twenty miles south-east of Fort William, and just at spitting distance of Kinlochleven," Chapman answered. "Do you know where that is?" he asked and then, as Harry shook his head, the man asked, "You're in Scotland. Do you know what Scotland is?"

And now, being considered dim-witted suddenly was a bit more annoying. Harry frowned. "Yes, I know what Scotland is," he answered, a little snappish, and accidentally let out an irritated growl through. As the men in front of him flinched at the sound, he felt a twinge of guilt, and concentrated onto keeping the dragon's mouth shut. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm just a bit lost."

"I understand perfectly," the man said with a nod and a smile, and almost made Harry believe what he said. "We will do our very best to help you, I promise, but we need to know a few things first. Okay? We need to know more about the dragon," Chapman said, looking him steadily. "Can you tell me how you and Horntail met?"

"Not really," Harry answered, now getting a bit worried – not that he hadn't been worried before, but now he was worried about a different thing. He had figured out that, whichever way things would go, the whole thing with the dragon would cause problems. But whatever problems these people thought it caused, they weren't the same ones he had in mind.

"Why?" he asked, while Chapman frowned at him. "Why do you want to know?"

"Well… it will help us help you," the man offered, and then, as Harry narrowed his eyes in growing irritation at the placating tones the man was using, he smiled. "Okay, then. Horntail is a big dragon, and it is a bit worrisome that she's walking around here, like this. You two scared a girl from a near by village, did you know? That's why we're here. We are just trying to understand how she came about. I promise you won't get into any trouble for telling."

Easy for him to say, Harry thought, glancing at the big dragon on the other side of the clearing, and folding his arms uneasily. "I didn't mean to scare that girl. She ran away before I got a word through," Harry said and shook his head. He was getting a little tired of standing, and his wounds were aching again. With a sigh, he lay his dragon body down while rubbing at his temple, and noticed from the corner of his two sets of eyes that the big dragon on the other side seemed to relax a little at that.

"I understand, trust me, I do," Chapman assured him. "Now, can you tell me how you and Horntail came to be here?" he asked, and then glanced at the wound Harry was very hard trying not to prod. "How did you get hurt?"

Harry really didn't want to tell – not before he knew more, knew whether or not he was allowed and what, really, was going on. He had to say something, though; the men were obviously expecting an answer and wouldn't budge before they got one. And yet…. These people weren't wizards but they had a dragon in a harness, and it was very, very confusing. Like he had stepped into a daydream – a painful, confusing day dream. Or maybe a hallucination – and with his head wound, he couldn't really put that past him.

Like some sort of mental release, like a blockage bursting open, Harry had an idea. The men already thought he was slow and maybe mentally handicapped. And he did have a _wonderful_ little head wound. "I can't," he said again and sighed, lowering his hand. "I can't remember."

Chapman blinked, surprised and then understanding. He exchanged looks with the other men, communicating soundlessly through looks and shrugs and nods, before turning to Harry again and smiling. "Okay then, Potter," he amended, softening his words even more. Like talking to an infant, Harry thought but bit back the irritation. "What _do_ you remember?"

"Um…" Harry considered that. What would satisfy the men? "Falling?" he more asked than said. "My name," he added, wondering if telling it had been a mistake. If he wanted to play at amnesia, that probably had been a wrong move. "That's… about it."

"Okay," Chapman said, all smiles and warm looks of understanding, and turned to Harry's dragon body. "What about you, Horntail? Do you remember?"

Harry let out a confused sound through both bodies, and then clamped the dragon's jaws shut again. "Horntail doesn't talk English," he said, and the men turned to look at him again. He shrugged. "It… she understands, but all she does is growls and snarls." And he hoped to Merlin they wouldn't ask why she was carrying him around without making a fuss.

"I see," Chapman said slowly and straightened up, looking thoughtful. He glanced at one of the other men, nodding back towards the dragon with the harness, and the man, Patel or Roberts Harry wasn't entirely sure which, turned and hurried back towards the big beast. "Can you tell me what has happened since you woke up, Potter?" Chapman asked, in an obvious attempt to distract him long enough for the others to talk on the big dragon's back. "When did you wake up?"

Harry shrugged, watching the big dragon and how the man who had listened to his limping story climbed up and to the neck of the beast, to talk with the man there. "Nothing really. We've just been walking, trying to find a way out," he answered. "I think it was yesterday, but I passed out a couple of times, so I'm not sure," he added.

"You must be hungry. And tired," the man said.

"A little." A lot, but that didn't need to be said. Harry really didn't want more of the man's patronising tones. "What is going to happen to me?" he asked, because he was now pretty sure that he wouldn't be allowed to just wander off.

"Hopefully nothing bad. I think it might be best that you and Horntail come with us, and we'll see about getting you two some food – and having you checked up. You've gotten a nasty knock on your head, and Horntail doesn't look too good either," Chapman said, reassuring now. "We can look at those wounds of yours."

"That's nice," Harry answered, now distracted by the way a man on top of the big, orange dragon's shoulders was waving multi coloured flags. Signals, maybe? He glanced up with his dragon's eyes, and saw that one of the other dragons had a man on its back, signalling as well. In the meantime, the man who had gone to talk to the big dragon's riders was coming down again, hurrying back to Chapman.

The two had a whispered conversation and then Chapman looked at Harry again, smiling. "Well then, Potter. We would like it very much if you and Horntail came with us. We'd like to show you the Loch Laggan Covert. There will be many other dragons there. Would you like to see it?"

Really wishing the man would stop talking to him like he was a four year old and knowing that it probably helped his whole amnesia play, Harry sighed. "Do I have a choice?" he asked, looking at the big, orange dragon.

"Of course you do, but we'd really like it more if you came with us. It's alright," Chapman assured. "We'll get you some food there, too. Anything you would like."

"And some clean clothing. And a bath," one of the other two men added.

Harry glanced down to himself. Yeah, he definitely needed a bath. "Okay," he answered, though not really because of the clothing. "I'm not sure if Horntail can fly," he then added. "We've just been walking. We didn't want to fall again."

"Perfectly understandable," Chapman said, giving the Hungarian Horntail a thoughtful look. "How about you come with us on Laetificat, and Horntail can try her hand at flying? She hasn't a harness at any rate, so you flying with her might be dangerous. You might fall." He trailed away and then looked worriedly between Harry and the dragon. "If Horntail wouldn't mind, of course."

Harry frowned, glancing between the Horntail and the other dragon. He still didn't know what would happen, if he put too much a distance between his bodies – could he do it or would he pass out, or worse? He wasn't too sure about flying, either. Normally, he loved flying, but usually he had a broom to hang on to. Flying with his own wings seemed a bit… well, risky. He didn't know if he could even get off the ground, anyway. He knew more about the mechanics of flying than to think that all he needed to do was flap his wings and be off – it was probably more difficult than that. And after all the trouble it took to learn how to _walk_ properly, too

But he had to admit, he was curious. Flying was, even in the worst rainy days, his favourite thing about _anything_. Flying as a dragon, if he could, would probably be pretty wicked. Unfolding his wings carefully, he gave them a thoughtful look. They looked well enough – and he _had_ seen the Horntail fly….

"We'll try," he said, deciding to risk it. Before Chapman could say anything against it, Harry quickly climbed back up the Horntail's forearm, and then onto it's back. He had flown on her back before – well, on her _head_ actually – and she had been trying to shake him off, so he figured he could stay on. There were enough hand holds. And he didn't want to risk the distance thing, if it did turn out that he passed out – he didn't want to pass out in mid air and plummet to his death.

"Alright. Okay then," Chapman said from the ground, too surprised to argue. "You two… give it a try – if you can get aloft, try and get in middle of the circle the others are flying, okay?" he asked, pointing above and to the dragons who had kept on circling above them. "Laetificat will follow up after you, if you can manage it. Once in air, you’ll follow us, alright?"

"Alright," Harry said, sitting down among the spines of the Horntail's back, where he could sit among them, even lean back against some of them. It was as secure as he could make himself, and as he stood up on draconic all fours, he was satisfied that he could hold on.

After a moment of talking amongst themselves, the three men on the ground turned together and headed back to the big dragon – whose name was Laetificat, apparently. As they climbed back to the big dragon's back, Harry spread out his wings, looking back at them through human eyes while keeping the dragon eyes up ahead and concentrated. They were bigger than he remembered – but then, the last time he had seen them fully spread, they had been in constant motion and a little hard to see. Held open and still, they looked massive, long and wide and, if he said so himself, impressive.

Flapping them once experimentally, and feeling a bit silly as he did it, Harry was surprised and a little happy to find that he could feel the lift as they batted the air. It was very slight, but still there, and so Harry flapped again, faster, up and down with each spine of the wings spread as far as it could go, to catch as much air as he could. Now his bulk lifted a little and his feet came almost off the ground.

Now growing more confident about the capabilities of his new body, Harry began beating the air in long, smooth strikes that came from his body like second nature. The rhythm took a little trying to get right, and he veered a little alarmingly to the side at first, before realising that the weight that was his tail wasn't there just to be a weapon. He swung it from side to side until he found the right spot that kept him balanced – and by then, he was already by the tree tops.

It was incredible. A little strange, movement of the muscles strange, and the motion a little foreign to someone more used to having only four limbs, but much easier than he had assumed. There was barely any strain at all, and he found to his surprise that, after figuring out what went where and how, he could manoeuvre. And not just that, but he could do it easily, with a shift of his head and tail and by twisting his body slightly, he could go exactly in the direction he wanted to. It wasn't at all like riding on a broom – and even to the body sitting at the base of the Horntail's neck it wasn't like riding on a flying animal like a Hippogriff.

It was… very different from anything he had ever felt. Rather like swimming and sitting on top of a train all at once, except nothing like it. It was free. _Exhilarating_.

He almost forgot what he had been told, and could barely suppress the sudden urge to just swoop and loop and duck and weave through the air, and to fly to the middle of the circling dragons instead. They were all smaller than Laetificat – smaller than Harry himself was, too – and as Harry awkwardly tried to stay in the pattern of their flying. He couldn't stop and stay still in air like he would've on broom – he tried and immediately started sinking, his wings falling out or rhythm – so he was forced to fly in circles instead. It wasn't too bad, though, even flying in a circle as a dragon was pretty cool.

Just as he started to figure the pace out, Laetificat was suddenly in the air not far from him. As Harry looked up at her, he noticed that all the other, smaller dragons around him also had harnesses and people on them, and as they flew in a circle there was a lot of flag signalling going on between dragons.

"Potter!" Chapman shouted from Laetificat's bag, through a speaking trumpet. "We will head to Loch Laggan now! You and Horntail try and stay in the middle of the formation!"

"Alright!" Harry answered, accidentally letting loose a small roar alongside the word. Laetificat's riders seemed to take that as an affirmation, though, and the big female dragon settled into the lead, with the other dragons flanking Harry as they arched slowly in air, and turned to fly towards the west.


	3. Part I, Chapter III

The flight wasn't too long, and not all that taxing, except for the fact that Laetificat set an oddly awkward pace, somehow too slow which Harry had some difficulties keeping up. He thought it might be their worry about him falling off _his own_ back that made them take that particular precaution, but he supposed he couldn't say much to that. He wasn't too sure if he would've liked to try some more acrobatic flying anyway – once the initial rush passed, he found it a bit awkward, hanging onto the Horntail's shoulder spikes for support and the spot by the neck, which he had thought secure, wasn't, not really. The spines and horns and spikes didn't stay still, after all, and shifted and moved fluidly with every wing beat. The wound along his back started to make itself be felt once more too, and by the time Chapman called him that they were getting close and that they wanted Harry to land first, he was a little relieved.

Loch Laggan, whatever it was meant to be, didn't look all that impressive from the air. Of course, Harry was more used to seeing things like Hogwarts, the Quidditch pitch, the BlackLake and ForbiddenForest from that particular perspective, and the four-cornered castle sitting on a hill top, the loose ring of wooden buildings a little lower and the Loch itself, much smaller than BlackLake, didn't quite compare. One thing made it a little more interesting, though, and that was the many dragons lying about in the small castle's courtyard, bigger ones curled up or stretched out wide, and smaller ones taking the spots in between or, in a few cases, on top of the other dragons.

All of them, from beasts of Laetificat's size to ones that looked like cats in comparison to elephants at their side, wore harnesses.

"You may land whenever you are ready, Potter!" Chapman called from Laetificat's back, while Harry stared down at the dragons – and some of them looked back. The wizard wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to, though. Maybe it was some instinct of the dragon-him, or something else, but the concept made him uneasy.

It had been easier in the forest, with the trees for cover and Laetificat the only challenger – even in the air it had been bearable and there had been the possibility of fleeing from the formation of five dragons. In the courtyard it would be a different thing, and if the other dragons wanted to fight or something, Harry wasn't sure how he'd manage it. He wasn't sure if he could run away, once down there, with so many dragons to chase after him.

But there was no real choice – already the smaller dragons by Laetificat's side were pressing closer to Harry, one of them making moves as if intending to fly above him, trying to force him to land. With a frown, Harry steeled himself. It was uncomfortable – but he was curious about all of this, and he couldn't find out anything by staying in the air. Plus, he was really getting hungry now.

With that thought, he ducked down, his descent was somewhat halting and a little awkward. As he fought to keep himself level and not to drop himself from his neck, he wondered if a Horntail's body was ill equipped for that sort of landing – it felt oddly unnatural, to drop altitude like that, belly down. It felt like he ought to be faster.

During their fight, he had seen the Horntail dive beautifully, once seeming to just crash down and upon Harry from the air without any control or resistance and still very smoothly – and then, just a hair width's away from the ground, the dragon had opened her wings wide to embrace the air and quickly darted away. Horntails, he remembered vaguely, mostly hunted other flying beasts – flying horses and such, and sometimes even other dragons – for food, so the deadly, hawk like dive was probably their usual mode of hunting. It was probably also how they came to land, he mused with some annoyance, as the air current nearly threw him to the side, like mocking his awkward attempts of keeping himself level.

But eventually he did land, touching down awkwardly and nearly making himself fall from his neck. While shaking his wings and laying them down, he decided that if he got the chance, he would practice landing some, to make it smoother. Around him, Laetificat and the other dragons were coming to land, some of them diving closer to ground while Laetificat landed a little like Harry had done, but at an angle, coming to land a little like a massive airplane rather than like a helicopter, if comparisons like that could be used on dragons.

From the Horntail's back, Harry watched curiously how the people on board the dragons started climbing down – and how other people came out from the ring of wooden buildings. There were some words exchanged in between them, before they started to undress the dragons from some of their harness, taking away the tents and the netting at the belly and some other things too, leaving only what seemed to be some sort of base harness, to which everything else was attached. As they unburdened the dragons, Harry found that the thick straps of leather across the chests of the dragon seemed to bear their names. Laetificat's name in capital letters was riveted in metal on the harness – and beside her there was Actionis and at her other side Proeliator, and at Harry's other side there were Benevolentia and Exertus.

"Come down, Potter, if you please," Chapman, who had came closer while Harry had been reading the names, called, and Harry turned both his gazes down upon the man. He was taking off his hood, to reveal long dark hair tied back, and pulling off his coat. "There are things to discuss."

Harry hesitated a moment before starting to slide down and to the welcoming crook of the Horntail's arm, figuring that lingering didn't help him any. After setting himself down, Harry laid his dragon body on its belly, shifting his, _her_ , wings slightly to ease the twist of the wound along her back.

"We shall have a dragon surgeon look at her, I should think, see how deep that cut is and if something ought to be done about it," another man said, walking towards them while Harry considered the wound on the Horntail's back. "If she doesn't mind, of course," the man added, giving Harry a stern look.

"There are surgeons for dragons?" Harry asked a little dumbly, and the new man shared a glance with Chapman which seemed to speak volumes.

"We'll have someone look at you too," Chapman said, tilting his head to glance at the dried blood on the side of Harry's head. "Will Horntail make a fuss about being checked over?"

Harry shrugged a little uneasily. He wouldn't, if they could make the wound better – and he certainly didn't mind having his own checked over too. He looked up to the Horntail, while using her eyes to look at the other dragons. Thankfully they were keeping a distance in-between them, but that was probably for his sake. There was something very placating about it all, yet watchful, like they were trying to keep him from panicking or something.

 _Her_ , he corrected himself. The Horntail was a _her_ , even if it was _his_ mind in control. He probably needed to get used to that, if these people wanted to ask questions and so forth – he'd just make them think he was even stupider than he had originally made himself out to be, by calling a female dragon male all the time.

"Do you think you can leave her to be treated by the surgeons while the doctors look you over, or do you think you ought to stay at her side to keep her calm?" the strange, severe looking man by Chapman's side asked, looking between Harry and the Horntail thoughtfully.

"It doesn't matter," Harry said. He didn't need himself to hold his hand, after all, and he was about as comfortable with the whole thing as he was going to get. She too. "She'll be calm. So as long as long it doesn't hurt." He didn't know if he had enough of control over her body to fight instincts to flinch or something, if they started to put hot irons on her, or something.

"Are you sure?" Chapman asked, looking at Horntail worriedly. "Does she even understand?"

Harry turned to him, frowning. Then, looking up he realised that the Horntail was giving something of an indifferent image of herself, as he used her eyes to look around and didn't pay much attention to the conversation _as her_. To them it looked like she wasn't listening and didn't really care one way or the other what they were talking about. And it wasn't like Harry could explain that everything he knew, heard and understood, so did she.

"Horntail," he said, addressing himself awkwardly, feeling a little silly, and turned his, _her_ , draconic head to look at his human body. "There will be a surgeon coming to look at your wound. You shouldn't make any fuss. Do you understand?" After making pretence of having the Horntail consider it, he nodded her head, and Harry turned to look at the men, expectant, trying not to think of how ridiculous and unnecessarily complicated the whole thing was.

"Well," Chapman said, exchanging looks with the other man. "I suppose that will suffice."

"Indeed," the man said, giving a signal to couple of men hanging about and then looked at Harry while the men headed off quickly. "Well, Mr. Potter, if you would come this way we will have someone look at your head," the severe looking man said, motioning towards the small castle.

"And my ribs, I think a couple of them are broken, or at least cracked," Harry said, following them towards the castle entrance cautiously, while also staying behind. It was a strange sensation, though mostly through the two different sights and feeling of laying down and walking, rather than because of anything more ethereal or magical. Shaking his head he gave the man walking beside Chapman a look. "What is your name, sir?" he asked.

"Oh, pardon me. I am Captain Portland," the man said, offering his hand between steps to be shaken. "I am Laetificat's captain, and the leader of our formation."

"Okay," Harry agreed, shaking the man's hand. "Dragons have captains then?" Surgeons and captains, and harnesses – and Latin names, judging by the sound of them.

"Every dragon here," Chapman agreed, giving him a look that was part gentle assurance and part pity. "You are Horntail's captain yourself, Potter."

"I am?" the wizard asked, giving him a confused look. "How'd you figure that?"

"Well, perhaps not a captain, obviously you are not part of the Aerial Corps, but perhaps a companion," Portland said, he too looking at Harry with some pity, and maybe a little bit of exasperation. "I do not know how you came about making yourself such, but to carry you and indulge you Horntail must have a great deal of affection for you, Potter. Affection, which usually is only given by a dragon only to his or her captain."

"I have no idea what that means," Harry answered, now even more confused.

"I'll explain it to you later," Chapman promised kindly, after sharing yet another of those blatant, communicative looks with Portland. "How about we concentrate on getting you sorted out first."

Harry sighed, first considering asking for some explanation now, before something the Horntail was seeing distracted him. He said only, "Fine," somewhat absently, while in the courtyard a group of men were approaching the dragon part of him, first cautiously and then with more confidence when Harry made no move to attack.

"Now, will you give me any fuss or will you let me have a look at you?" the man in the lead asked, and obligingly Harry, no, _Horntail_ lowered _her_ head and sighed, trying to give the impression of not intending to be fussy. The man nodded with satisfaction, before giving her a considering look and then turning to his assistant. "Go and fetch a bucket of warm water and some linens, Russell, I suspect we need to clean the wound some to have a better look at it," he said, and one of the men turned quickly to head back inside.

Then, without further ado, the man began climbing Horntail's side, making his way with practiced ease over her shoulder and to her back, taking support from the spikes and horns there to make his way to the wound. Curious and a little uneasy about having a strange man walking all over her, Horntail turned her head to follow him with her eyes. The man didn't seem to notice though, as he kneeled by the wound and started feeling around it, prodding at the flesh and wiping away some flakes of crusted black blood.

"Potter?" Chapman was asking, and blinking Harry realised that he had, in his distracted state, continued to walk after the men, and had somehow ended up in candle lit room where a man wearing a white butcher's apron was looking down at him with concern. "Would you sit down, please?" Chapman asked, and it had the tone of repetition, like he had already asked and probably had too.

"Oh, sorry," Harry muttered awkwardly and sat down on the stool waiting for him, so that the doctor could take a look at his head wound. It was hard to keep track of one body while concentrating on another, his mind just wasn't made for that sort of thing. It wasn't as hard as in the beginning – and he was no longer getting the double-vision head ache - but still, when he was concentrating on one, the other became distracted and oddly hazed, there but inconsequential.

Now that he had noticed it, though, he could for a moment keep both bodies in _view_ , sort of. As the doctor went about cleaning his head wound with a wet pad of white bandage, the dragon surgeon was starting to wipe away the crusted blood from the wound on Horntail's back, and he could just barely keep both scenes in order. A painful prod by the dragon surgeon nearly unbalanced the whole thing, though, bringing Harry's attention crashing onto the Horntail, but after giving the man a warning growl he managed, just barely, to bring back the awkward balance.

"Potter, was it?" the doctor asked, while moving Harry's hair aside. "It's a nasty knock you got, no mistake, but it doesn't look like there was much damage. A bump, to be sure, and it probably hurts like nobody's business, but it's not serious. Did it bleed a lot?"

"I don't know, I was mostly unconscious at the time," Harry answered, staring into the air before him distractedly.

"Well, it doesn't look too bad," the dragon surgeon was saying on Horntail's back. "A little inflamed, but not infected. We'll clean it up and put a wad of bandages on it. Keep an eye on it just to make sure, but I should say it will close up in week or two."

Meanwhile, the doctor was peering at the wound hidden in Harry's hair. "Have you had any spells of unconsciousness since then? In the last, say, day or so? Very good. Try and keep it clean, not prod at it too much or disturb it and it should heal soon enough," the doctor said. "Now, let's have a look at your ribs. Strip down to your waist."

Harry did, a little distracted, awkward and wincing. The state of his clothing made his concentration falter and for a moment land almost solely on his human body. The robe he wore was made hard, almost starched, by the dried blood on it, and only after removing it did he realise how disgusting it really was. His clothing underneath was little better – he had worn his Quidditch gear to the First Task, and the fingerless gloves, leather gauntlets and elbow guards were ruined by the dragon blood. His vest and jumper underneath were little better off, and the blood had stained right through them to his skin.

As Chapman and Portland took the discarded Quidditch gear and inspected it curiously, the doctor crouched down to look at Harry's ribs. The first prod at them nearly made Harry yelp, and even the Horntail shivered with the sharp pain, not feeling it physically but the mental feel of it definitely echoed between bodies.

"This one is definitely cracked," the doctor mused as Harry looked down, to find that nearly the whole of his ribcage on that side was blue and purple. Harry hissed and winced, as the doctor prodded further. "Hm. The others are bruised, but you've gotten off easy – the one that sustained the most damage should heal without difficulty. I'll give you some laudanum for the pain, that should get you through it nicely enough."

Harry paused at that. "Laudanum. Isn't that made from opium?" he asked, remembering one terrifying potions lesson where Snape had gone on and on about muggle drugs and their not-so-beneficial side effects. Especially on wizards. Laudanum, according to Hermione, had gone out of use as a cure-all-ails thing years ago, but Snape had been more than happy to paint some horror images of wizards who had abused laudanum and ended up doing some horrible things in their drug-induced hazes. Not to mention about over doses.

It had been a pretty heavy lesson for a class of eleven year olds – especially those who lived among muggles.

"I'd rather have some willow bark tea, thanks," Harry said, weakly, paling at the memory.

"Willow bark tea?" the doctor asked, giving him an astonished look. "Mr. Potter, there is absolutely nothing wrong with laudanum."

"Still, I'd rather not," the wizard said again, uneasy. Wizards under the influence of stuff like opium tended to cast some strange accidental magic. He didn't want that to happen to him. "It doesn't hurt that much, really."

The doctor frowned at him, hands resting at his hips, before sighing. "Well, I suppose I can't force you. It's damn foolish of you, but you wouldn't be the first hard headed patient I’ve had," he said, and turned to Portland who was holding one of Harry's ruined gauntlets in his hand. "There's nothing I can do for him that time won't have better luck at. So as long as he eats, sleeps and doesn't exert his ribs, he should be right as rain soon enough."

"And the… memory problems?" Chapman asked, glancing at Harry.

"Well. That is not an ailment I've been forced to treat before," the doctor admitted. "I suspect that after the effects of the blow pass, it is entirely possible that Mr. Potter's memory will return. I will have to consult some books, but for now I think it's best to leave that as it is. There is nothing we can do about it, in any case, there is no medicine invented yet that would cure forgetfulness."

Outside, the dragon surgeon, whose name was Keynes, was finished bandaging the wound on Horntail's back. The bandage was a bit awkward and odd and would probably fall off sooner rather than later, but she didn't much mind – the doctor had spread some cool salve onto the wound, and it felt a little better. And it was good to know that the wound wasn't bad, though she had suspected that before.

"Now. You're to eat as much as you like – you're a bit too thin as it is," the surgeon said, giving her a considering look before turning to call to some men nearby. "You there, bring a cow and slaughter it, would you?" and without so much as a goodbye, he turned and after collecting the buckets and rags, headed back to the castle, leaving Horntail blinking after him in confusion.

Harry almost asked Portland and Chapman why a surgeon would want a cow slaughtered, but decided against it. "Now what?" he asked instead, picking up his discarded shirt from the floor and giving it a grimace. It used to be white, a few days back. Probably for the last time.

"A bath, I should think, and some clean clothing," Portland said, turning to Chapman. "See to it, Lieutenant. I must go and report to Celeritas. I will see you afterwards."

"Right you are, sir," Chapman said, turning to Harry as Portland headed off. He smiled and clapped his hands together, looking pleased. "Well then. Let's go and wash up, shall we? I'll have a servant look into these," he added, looking at the pile of Harry's clothing. "As well as your breeches and whatnot. Perhaps they might still be salvaged. In the meantime, I'm sure we can find something for you to wear around here. For now, though, pull on a shirt or something, best not to give anyone a fright."

"Okay," Harry agreed, and did as he was told. Chapman helped him pile up the rest of his soiled clothes and carry them out of the doctor's office. As they headed out and into the corridors of the castle, the man whistled cheerfully and told Harry that he would like Loch Laggan's baths very much – they were apparently build by the Romans and were very nice.

Harry’s mind felt clumsy – because only after they had stepped out, he started considering the fact that the doctor had offered laudanum and worn a _butcher's apron_. There were also the soldiers – they had to be soldiers, with the uniforms and weapons they were wearing. And those uniforms and those weapons, they were all so… dated. Harry didn't know much about muggle weaponry, but he knew flint lock pistols when he saw them, and there were also the swords to consider, worn so casually like it was common.

Not to mention about the dragons.

Something was wrong, beyond what his still muffled mind could comprehend, and it was time to start to get to the bottom of it.

"Hey, Chapman," Harry stared slowly and thoughtfully, and gave the man a considering look. "What year is it? And the date?"

The man blinked and then smiled, an odd expression of mingled disbelief, amusement and pity. "I suspect you have lost some days? Don't worry, I'm sure we can bring you up do date soon enough," he said and then answered. "The day is the twenty sixth of November, and the year seventeen-ninety-four. Of course."

That was when a couple of men dragged a cow near Horntail and slaughtered it right in front of her – and the budding headache Harry had been feeling coming exploded into a brilliant bout of nausea.

 

* * *

 

 

Dragons and their captains. Chapman explained it all to Harry, while he recovered from his bout of vomiting and washed away the taste from his mouth in the steam of the Loch Laggan baths – something which would fit right in at an expensive muggle hotel in _nineteen_ ninety four, Harry thought rather confusedly and couldn't really figure out what it meant.

It was easier to let Chapman talk his ear off and only encourage the man with confused questions, than to try and think. It helped, though, that he felt like he was clean for the first time in what felt like years. The blood, Horntail's and his own, had been washed away. Heat and a bucket of water doing what he doubted even a shower would have had an easy time with, and even if Harry hadn't been permitted into the pools with his head wound – which had given a trickle of blood after being washed – he didn't really mind. He had never been in steam baths before, and it felt incredible, the best thing ever, even. Especially since the battering he had taken.

"A great many dragon eggs are hatched here," the lieutenant of Laetificat said, motioning across the steamy room and to the shelves carved into the walls, where amidst padding gleamed the curving shells of dragon eggs. "The baths are prodigiously good for this sort of thing. The eggs are kept constantly just as warm as they need, and wet – some shells, when they're dry in the early stages, start cracking early on you see, so keeping them wet makes them hold on better later on. And, of course, with them here where people come sometimes several times on a slow day, we'd hardly miss if one of them begins to harden."

Harry peered at the dragon eggs with squinted eyes, barely seeing without his gasses and a little uncomprehending – because in his mind he could still see the nest the Hungarian Horntail had carved onto the field of the First Task, nearly fortified among the rocks and boulders of the field. How had they gotten the eggs away from the dragons? And why were there so few of them? He could count, off hand, only about twenty, and only a couple of them had matching looks – some were about the same size, though mostly they varied with some being about as large as a cat while other were as big as Fang, Hagrid's big cowardly blood hound.

"And when they harden?" Harry asked, instead of asking about where the rest of the eggs were. Maybe the hardening was important, and those eggs that were thought to harden were moved into the baths, while rest were kept elsewhere, in some other storage room?

"Well, that means that the eggs are about ready to hatch. A week or so into hardening, and you'll have a dragonet in your hands ," Chapman explained kindly, motioning at the eggs again, and to the arching stone bench below them. There was a man sitting there, or so Harry at least hoped, he couldn't see that well that far with his glasses being back in the dressing room. He was pretty sure that the man's hand was resting on one of the shelves, though, with an egg in it.

"James's egg will hatch soon," Chapman said, smiling. "It's a Greyling, the smallest of all British dragons, and will become a courier beast. Of course, a courier beast can be the most important beast there is, when a note delivered a hour none to soon can make the difference between one result in a battle or another, so one shouldn't begrudge them for their size. They are, after all, the fastest of all British dragons."

"I see?" Harry more asked more than said, and frowned a little.

Outside, a little further away from what Chapman explained was the heated part of the courtyard – which being directly above the baths, was warm to the touch, hot in the warmest days, and the preferred resting place of the Loch Laggan dragons – Horntail lay curled on herself. It had been hard to keep her from vomiting at the sight of blood spilling from the throat of a dead cow, but Harry had managed – and now she just felt miserable, the dry heaving having left her a little stiff and aching.

"Oh, come now," the dragon surgeon, who had been brought after her _fit_ , said, hands at his hips and glaring at her. "You do no one any good by refusing to eat, especially not yourself. You need to regain your strength to heal up, you know," he snapped and motioned at the cow. "I know it is dead, but in your state it was best you did not hunt by your own power – the wound might've opened up, having been cleaned up recently. Just eat the damn thing, and be done with it."

Horntail hissed at him, shifting back a little. The very thought made both her and Harry swallow dryly in hopes of not starting to heave again, but still, it remained. Logically Harry knew that it was what dragons did, eating raw meat and all, they were predators after all. But _he_ wasn't a dragon, and the mere mental image was enough to make his stomach churn. It was probably the knocking about he had gotten that made him so sensitive to the sick feeling, but he didn't much care – even if he had been alright, he still wouldn't have exactly jumped up in excitement at the thought of eating a _dead cow_.

And judging by how Keynes and the others were acting, they were expecting Horntail to eat the thing as it was, hide and innards and probably head and hooves and all. Without any treatment beyond having the animal's throat cut and its resistance snuffed. It wasn't like Harry would've liked it any better, if it had been cut into bloody slices of flesh, but the concept of tearing into animal like that….

Horntail growled at Keynes when the man made another attempt at cajoling her into taking the cow, and in the baths Harry swallowed dryly again. He wished the surgeon would just give up and go already.

"What… what will happen, when the dragon hatches?" Harry forced himself to ask, glancing up at Chapman.

"There will be a harnessing. James will name the beast, harness it, and then feed it – and they will be matched from then forth, as dragon and a captain," Chapman said with an air of ceremony. He smiled down at Harry. "I suspect that is how it was with you and Horntail, even if you can't remember it. That is how close bonds like that are formed. You probably fed her and made her fond of you, which is why she lets you ride her and so forth."

Harry looked away, not answering; instead he rubbed at the side of his temple, where the skin felt cold and tight, and frowned. "Is it always like that?"

"Well, of course not. Some dragons refuse the harness, of course, but it's fairly rare these days," the lieutenant answered, leaning back and relaxing against the warm wall behind them. "And naturally there are much more aviators than there are captains – like you saw with Laet and the rest of the formation. I'm second lieutenant on board Laetificat – and there are about two dozen other men, plus the ground crew. Of course, she's a heavy weight dragon, one of our biggest, and can carry enough harness and men for that sort of thing. Middleweights like Actionis and the rest, carry usually about half as much. And James will of course be all the crew his dragon will have – Greylings can only carry a couple of people, being small."

Harry eyed him and in the courtyard Horntail ignored the way Keynes threw up his arms, instead glancing at the other dragons. Comparing Laetificat to the others… she was indeed the biggest. The others in her formation weren't nearly as big, though there were other dragons in the covert yard which were pretty large. Horntail could also see what she assumed were the smallest beasts – there was a little grey one lying on top of Laetificat's back, and not far from them there were a couple of brown and purple dragons entangled together, a little bigger than the grey one.

"Dragons have weight classes?" Harry asked finally.

"Indeed," Chapman said. "Laetificat is a heavy weight combat dragon, obviously. Actionis and Proeliator are large middleweights, a Yellow Reaper and an Anglewing respectively. Benevolentia on other hand is a light combat beast, a Pascal's Blue, and Excertus is the same, his breed being Grey Copper."

Harry nodded slowly, while Horntail compared the beasts by size. "Doesn't that mean that Horntail is a… heavyweight?" Harry asked then. Horntail was bigger than either the yellow striped Actionist or the golden-orange Proeliator, even if not even nearly as big as Laetificat.

Chapman nodded thoughtfully. "Certainly. She's some twenty tons I should say, and judging by what I saw of her, about seventy feet long. Laetificat is closer to thirty-seven tons and about a hundred feet from head to tail, so obviously much bigger, but Regal Coppers like her are always the biggest of the bunch, being the largest known dragon breed. Twenty years ago we lost a Regal Copper that was forty-two tons, he was a real big fellow."

Harry nodded again, thinking it through slowly. In the meantime Keynes was walking away from Horntail, calling something.

"… her captain, see if he can make the bloody beast eat her food," the surgeon was saying. "See about cutting the cow up a little, maybe that will make it easier…."

Wincing a little, Horntail quickly stood up and backed away as some men came forward with axes in their hands, obviously intending to cut the cow into more manageable pieces. Something Harry definitely did not wish to see, and quickly the Horntail turned her head away, curling up again and trying not to listen.

It was easier, Harry thought, to handle dead things after they had tried to kill him. He had had more than enough nightmares about the Basilisk, of course, but he had been able to justify that with the fact that the snake had been trying to kill him, almost succeeded at it too. The same with Quirrell and the rest, and of course Tom Riddle of the diary wasn't even alive so that had been okay. It was something else entirely, this butchery. Rationally he knew all meat he had ever eaten had to have been butchered at some point – but it hadn't been done _right in front of him_.

"We need to still learn more about your Horntail, of course, but she would make a prodigious fighting beast," Chapman continued. "With those spikes all over her boarding her would be risky, and that _tail_." He shook his head in wonder. "Chequered Nettles have barbed tails, and there are some dragons that have their shoulder ridges continue into sort of spikes on their tail – Kazilisks being, I think, the only heavy weights like that. But your beast…. It's an apt name, you gave her."

Harry shrugged uneasily. The tail the man was marvelling at had nearly killed him a couple of times before he and the Horntail had flung themselves out of the arena. The Horntail had been using it something like both a club and a sword, and it had been pretty terrifying, to have the thing flying at him.

"I wonder, I really do, about where she came from. What is her breed – and who bred her?" Chapman murmured and looked up as the doors to the steam room were opened and another man came in, a thick set man bearing a bandage around his waist and an annoyed expression on his reddened face. "Hey, Berkley," Chapman greeted him. "Nice to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

"Like a damned fool – and a damned nuisance," the man said, in a loud voice that echoed in the room, before collapsing to sit beside Chapman with a grimace, hand resting on his side. "The doctors finally let me have a wash, and about time too. Alright, James?" the man asked the boy sitting across from them, still caressing the egg. "How does it feel?"

"A little hardened maybe?" the boy, James, answered, though he looked more hopeful than certain.

"It'll hatch eventually, don't you worry," the thickset man said, leaning back against the wall and sighing. There was a little red in the bandage, Harry noticed.

"It probably won't take too long, now, either," Chapman said, though more to explain it to Harry than to the boy. "Greylings rarely take more than a year."

"Yeah," James said, more a wistful sigh really, and shook his head. Then he seemed to notice that he was red and pruned by the heat and the humidity and made his way out of the steam room.

"So, what’s this I've been hearing about a feral found near Kinlochleven?" Berkley then asked, turning to Chapman. "I head Laetificat's formation was sent take a look."

"Yes, we were – and what a beast we found," Chapman snorted, patting Harry's shoulder. "This here is Harry Potter – he's the, well, the captain of the dragon, Horntail. She's on the smaller side of average heavyweights, though beyond that we can't really say just yet. We can't tell her breed, or what breeds she might descend from. Portland thinks she might be a new middle eastern breed, with her spiking."

"Hm," Berkley hummed, looking down at Harry. "And you don't know, Potter?"

"Ah, well, that is…" Chapman glanced down at Harry, who sighed.

"I got knocked over the head," Harry said, and felt around his wet hair, bringing a little blood stained fingers up then as proof. The steam, as heavenly as it felt, wasn't doing much good on the wound. "I can't remember much from before."

"Can't you ask the dragon?" Berkley asked, lifting his eyebrows.

"Horntail doesn't speak," Harry shrugged giving the man a curious look. "What happened to you, sir?" he asked then, nodding at the bandages around the man's waist.

"I got shot," Berkley snorted. "And for no good reason either." He waved his hand at the way Harry's eyes widened a little. "Don't you mind, it was just a graze. A bloody irritating graze, but it didn't get any of my innards so in a month or two I'll be just as I was. So long as my bloody muscles will heal. As much good as it will do me, damn that Petit Chevalier to hell…."

"Berkley used to be first officer on the Contexeris, another Regal Copper," Chapman explained. "But Contexeris' wing was damaged beyond repair, and he was retired to the Pen Y Fan breeding grounds just a week or so ago."

"Does that sort of thing happen often?" Harry asked quietly, trying to imagine it. Out of reflex, the Horntail pulled her wings tight to her body. Harry might've not been a dragon for long, but even he could tell how bad it would be, to lose a wing.

"Not that often, thank heavens. Dragons don't like clawing each other's wings, for who knows what reason," Berkley said, folding his arms, grimacing, and letting them down again after it had left him with his elbow nearly on the wound. "It's good for us, of course, as it's a damn cowardly thing to do. That Petit Chevalier didn't like it too, but she was panicking."

Harry frowned. He figured that a _Petit Chevalier_ was probably another dragon, but what he didn't get was why. "So… Contex… Contexeris was fighting this Petit Chevalier when he got wounded? Why?" he asked, confused.

"Wasn't much of a fight, a skirmish really. The Petit Chevalier was one of three dragons, a French patrol that came a little too close to the shore near Edinburgh," Berkley said, shaking his head. "Damned waste."

"Yes, but… why would you fight at all?" Harry asked, looking between Berkley and Chapman.

"Why… oh, of course, you wouldn't know, with your…. Ahem, we're at war with the French," Chapman answered with an awkward sort of kindness, looking a bit confused to have to explain it. "France declared war on Britain last year. Of course it was a little different France that declared the war, but things haven't much changed since the Terror ended. And after all the victories they've had on land this year, despite the First of June, well, the French air patrols have gotten a little bold."

"Of course, we can give them as good as we get," Berkley grunted, rubbing his side gingerly.

Neither of them seemed to really notice the slowly dawning suspicion on Harry's face. "At war with the French," he repeated slowly.

"Well, half a Europe is at war with the French," Chapman snorted. "Us, the Prussians, the Austrians, the Dutch, all the while going about and cutting off the heads of their own people, of course. Even put their own king to death, damned frogs."

Harry's mouth opened a little, as what little he remembered from his history lessons from his handful of years of muggle schooling returned to him. Prussia, he remembered vaguely, or the Holy Roman Empire. And the guillotine, a subject of a particularly enjoyable history lesson when the boys of the classroom had gleefully listened to the explanation about the execution method and _how the French had put their own king to death with it, near the beginning of the French Revolutionary Wars_.

With a snap, the wizard closed his mouth and looked away, hoping that his supposed simplicity would cover the look on his face, which was probably falling with the sudden feeling of his stomach dropping. Seventeen ninety four. That would put him, where? When had the wars started? When had they ended? Napoleon had been part of them, he recalled, had been crowned an emperor at some point, but his memory of his muggle schooling was vague enough as it was, and history had never been his strongest suite.

The French revolutionary wars, Napoloen, and _air patrols_ of dragons. Harry swallowed dryly, running a hand over his chin to hide his expression, while outside the Horntail was giving little stricken looks at the dragons near the castle, now taking in their harnesses and their crews in a new, sharper light. Fighting beasts, Chapman had said. Fighting, apparently, in an actual bloody _war_.

What was going on? And where in the name of Merlin was he?

Harry was drawn from the shock momentarily by the entrance of another man into the steamy room, a young bloke in a towel just like the rest of them, though his hair was still dry. "Begging your pardon, but Keynes wants that big bronze beast's captain outside, the one with the queer tail. It won't take food."

Harry looked up and then at Chapman who patted a hand on his shoulder. "Sounds like we ought to get going, then," the lieutenant said, and stood up. He nodded to Berkley, wishing the man good luck on his recovery, and then led the still shocked Harry out of the steamy room, and to dry and pull on some clothing. Harry was so deep in his own thoughts that Chapman had to nudge him into his clothing and even then Harry missed the strangeness of the breeches completely.

"Come now. We need to look into your dragon, and see whatever's wrong. Now's not the time to get into a brown study," the man said and led Harry away, through the castle and to Horntail, where Harry was left facing himself without any idea about what he was supposed to do.

"Well, get to it. She needs some meat in her," Keynes snapped, while the wizard and the dragon eyed each other. It was rather like looking at a trick mirror, seeing himself from both sides, and yet… "We've butchered and cut up a cow for the beast, she won't even have to do much chewing, so as long as she consents to swallow."

Harry glanced at the man and then back up at himself. He felt dizzy, tired, hungry, numb. He was stuck two hundred years in the past of a world with _dragons_ , in the middle of the bloody Napoleonic wars – and these people wanted him to convince _himself_ to eat raw meat.

It would've been a nice time for his head wound to do some good on him, and allow him to lapse into a handy, problem evasive unconsciousness. Which, of course, it didn't.


	4. Part I, Chapter IV

Harry – both of him – were still hungry and confused, when a somewhat desperate Chapman introduced him to Celeritas a couple of hours of useless coaxing later. Keynes had thrown his hands up after a while, after Harry had made a rather pitiful show of trying to talk himself into eating something he didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole – especially not after seeing the less identifiable pieces of the cow being unceremoniously dropped to the ground, where they got dirty with sand, pebbles, dried grass and things he didn't want to consider too closely. After that Chapman had kept on for nearly an hour, trying to assure both Harry and Horntail that of course she ought to eat, but if cow wasn't what she was used to, then perhaps they should butcher her a sheep, or a pig. Harry had talked the man out of it, and probably made himself look even stranger, but by that time the boy really didn't care.

Eventually even the lieutenant threw up his hands, and when a small boy, younger than Harry had been when he had entered Hogwarts, had ran up to them to tell them that someone named Celeritas wanted to meet the new dragon's captain, Chapman had latched onto the hope. "Celeritas can put her to rights, just you see," he had said cheerfully and led Harry away from a curled up Horntail, saying that she would meet Celeritas later.

Celeritas, whose name had already given Harry some suspicion, turned out to be a dragon. Harry was no expert on dragons, especially the ones of this place, but even without any experience he could venture a guess that he was not only set aside by the fact that he wore no harness, but also by age and experience. How one could tell how old a dragon was, Harry had no idea, but he suspected that the golden hued, green striped dragon was among the oldest at Loch Laggan. And possibly the wealthiest too, considering the golden neck ring the old dragon wore.

"Well then, Mr. Potter," the dragon said, walking closer and lying down to inspect Harry more closely. He wasn't anywhere near as big as Laetificat, or even as big as Horntail, yet not exactly small either – so, probably what these people called a middleweight. "Captain Portland already reported some of your situation to me," the dragon said. "We are all very curious about the particulars of your and Horntail's case, but seeing that answers would be somewhat difficult to acquire, we shall forget your pasts and concentrate onto the present."

"Yes… sir," Harry answered, reeling a little. It's hard enough trying to comprehend the whole dragons-talking and dragons-in-the military-service thing, and now he was being interrogated by one. "I'll try to tell you all I can."

"Good," the dragon, Celeritas said, and then nodded to Chapman. "You may go, Lieutenant."

Chapman bowed, and then took his leave. Harry, left alone with the old dragon, glanced after him a little uneasily before straightening his back and turning to face Celeritas, expecting the cross examination to begin. He had no idea what he would say, what was safe to say, and what wasn't, but there was nothing he could do but try and get it all right. And hopefully, not make himself seem too suspicious – or stupid – in the process.

"Does Horntail remember anything from before your memory starts?" Celeritas asked. "I have been informed that she doesn't speak English, but can understand it. You communicate with her nodding and shaking her head, and such?"

"…yes," Harry said slowly, thoughtfully. That might end up being a bit difficult, in the long run, if he had to stay here for long. Dragons here were expected to talk back and all that. But Harry was relatively certain that dragons back in his… back where he came from _couldn't_ talk one way or the other, so he suspected that Horntail couldn't even learn. Vocal chords and such. But who knew, maybe she could learn, with practice. "If… if she can talk, somehow, then I can't remember it, and she hasn't since I woke up in the woods," he finally said. It seemed like a safe thing to say.

"Hm," Celeritas answered, nudging the bottom of his snout with his foreleg, like a human would stroked their chin in thought. "Perhaps you should try and coax her to speak, and see what kind of reaction she will give. She is not feral at any rate, though whether you are her first captain or not, I cannot say. It is difficult to tell her age," he mused, peering towards the courtyard.

Harry turned to look back as well, and at Horntail – while she peered at the men who were taking the cow carcass and all its pieces away, to be fed to another dragon, thank Merlin. He had no idea how old she was either – she could've been a couple of hundred for all he knew. She was already old enough to have eggs, though, so she was an _adult_ at any rate.

"Sir," Harry stared slowly. "I don't really… understand the whole dragon and captain thing." He turned to look up to the yellow dragon. "Chapman tried to explain it, but I didn't…. Everyone here acts like it's really important. Is it?"

The dragon turned to look at him, and if he had had eyebrows, he probably would've had them lifted up as high as they could go. "I see the knock upon your head was indeed very severe. Very well, I will explain," he said, settling down on the ground  comfortably. "The bond between a dragon and a captain is that of unconditional trust, and preferably also of respect and affection. It is born when the dragon hatches and is harnessed. Being tethered down, named and given food is, for a dragon, a promise of care and belonging and is in most cases the basis of a close lifelong relationship, which lasts until the death of one or both."

Harry nodded slowly. "So, basically, a dragon imprints on the human," he muttered, rubbing his slightly aching side absently. "Like ducks or geese."

Celeritas lifted his head sharply and stared at him before, after a moment, broke into a strange snorting sound which Harry realised after initial shock was laughter. "I suggest you don't use that particular analogy where most dragons or captains can hear, Mr. Potter," the dragon said, after wrestling his mirth down. "It is, in a sense, accurate, but not perhaps the most considerate way of putting it."

"Yeah, I bet," Harry muttered, a little embarrassed, and looked back towards the courtyard. So that was what it was, the whole captain and dragon thing. It made a little better sense, now. "So, you think that it's like that with me and Horntail?" he asked after a moment.

"Isn't it?" Celeritas asked back, lowering his head again to look at him. "She abides you, follows your orders, carries you without making a complaint, does she not? There are very few feral dragons who would do the same, that is to say, dragons that refused the harness and the captain."

"I suppose," Harry muttered, scratching the side of his neck. He couldn't very well say that he and the Horntail were the same person and she could no more deny him than he could deny his left hand. "So," he said and looked up at the dragon. "What does that mean for me. For us, for me and Horntail?" he asked. He had no idea what it meant, really, to be a dragon and a captain – not to mention about being _both_ at the same time – but he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to just go off on his merry way.

"All dragons in Britain are either in the service of the Aerial Corps, or living in the breeding grounds," Celeritas said slowly, apparently sensing his concern. "Regardless of how you came about harnessing Horntail – even if she hasn't a harness – and regardless where she and her breed originates, you are a British citizen, are you not?"

"I… yes, I think so," Harry said, though he had no idea how he fit in, in _this_ particular Britain. Or the other one, for that matter, who knew if Wizards had records in the muggle world. He might've, having a bit of muggle education, but who knew….

"Then, I suppose you have some decisions to make," Celeritas said, looking at him steadily for a moment before making some sort of decision. "Britain could always do with another dragon in its ranks. Especially a heavy weight, like her," he informed Harry. "We haven't enough of them, to send a prime specimen such as her straight away to the breeding grounds, without making the attempt of putting her to good use. Not while facing the air superiority of the French, who have two dragons to every one of ours and who knows about the courses this war will take. Should the French make alliances…."

Harry frowned, feeling a little dizzy once more, and after a moment sat down on the ground, ankles crossed and arms resting on his knees. The military service, he thought a little dully, while in the courtyard Horntail looked at the other dragons and the few humans who were here and there among them, some stroking their dragons and talking to them while others led theirs away, apparently to eat. Most of them were adults, though he had to think about the boy James and his dragon egg, supposedly meant to hatch soon. Maybe it was different with smaller dragons but still….

It was strange to realise it now, but Harry had never really thought much of his own future, or what he would… do, once he grew up. Things like that were a little confusing in the magical world and the present was always so confusing and attention consuming that it simply didn't matter, the future. Especially to him, with his survival of the present always being such a gamble against usually bad odds. He had thought, after Professor Moody had taken over the Defence Against the Dark Arts, that he might like to be an Auror….

But a captain of a dragon in the military of what Harry was slowly starting to realise was another world entirely?

"What would it be like?" Harry asked after a moment, looking up to Celeritas. "To be a… to be in the Aerial Corps?"

Celeritas thought about it before sighing. "Considering Horntail's weight… well. You would be doing heavy combat, of course. That would however be after training, which could take as much as two years or more, depending on how fast you and Horntail learn," he said, and lowered his head, to nearly rest on the ground so that he could look Harry in his eyes. "Horntail would of course have to wear a harness and you would be assigned a crew. A flight crew of officers, a number of top men and bell men and of course the rifle men and a ground grew. And of course the look outs, runners and a surgeon. Overall, I should say thirty, forty people."

Harry swallowed, trying to imagine it. So many strange people, clambering about Horntail's harness. "Rifle men?" he asked then. "People fire firearms from dragon back?"

"A greatly important part of aerial combat, that," Celeritas agreed. "One of the deadliest combat manoeuvres of dragons is also dropping bombs, both at enemy dragons, as well as enemy ships and, on the occasion of ground battles, on enemy battalions and guns. Not fire-breathers, however – the danger of setting alight her own bombs is too great."

 The wizard stared at him, trying to stretch his imagination. So, dragons were used something like airplanes, except not. He shook his head and looked away, wrapping his mind as well as he could around the concept. "What are air battles like?" he finally asked.

"Well, situations vary, but commonly dragons fly in formations, often to protect a lead dragon that is set apart from the rest either through a special ability such as acid or poison spitting – or in the case of French, fire-breathing and whatnot. We British have no fire-breathers, so our Longwings, being acid spitters, are our most important lead dragons," Celeritas said. "Often however there are formations with no such special qualities – there are simply not enough long wings to lead every formation – in which case physical prowess and command ability make the formation leader. Such as in the case of Laetificat, who is both strong and intelligent – and experienced, having fought in several skirmishes and numerous fleet actions."

Missing the thoughtful look Harry got, Celeritas continued. "Battles between dragons most often commence with an exchange of rifle fire. Of course dragons maul each other about as much as they can, which is perhaps the most dangerous part of the battle, but for the crews it is weakening the enemy forces on board the dragon by taking them out with rifles and such. After that, it is boarding the enemy dragon if at all possible, and hopefully removing them from the battle."

"Dragons can be boarded?" Harry asked, shocked and fascinated, for a moment forgetting the mention of fire-breathers.

"Yes, though it is very dangerous to attempt. However, if a boarder can put a pistol on the dragon's captains head, the dragon is thus removed from the battle," Celeritas said, nodding. "A dragon's first and foremost concern is his or her captain, and if a captain is put under the threat of danger, a dragon will do anything in his or her power to prevent it – even removing themselves from battle. This makes the greatest duty of a dragon's crew to protect the captain, of course, which make the top men on board a dragon often invaluable in battle."

Harry nodded. If dragon imprinting was like he was starting to figure it was, then that made sense. It would never be a concern with him and Horntail, of course, though if a gun was put on his head… well. He didn't want to die anymore than a dragon wanted their captain to die, he suspected.

"Against ships or landsmen, it is of course not an issue, being boarded – however, from ships and from the army there is always the threat of guns. A cannon can take out a dragon quicker and easier than another dragon can, and even pepper shots, even if not lethal to a dragon, can be mortal if they can stop a dragon's process long enough for a good gunner to take aim," Celeritas said. "However, a ship always has more to fear from a dragon than vice versa, because a ship is often a slow target, and it is always easier for a dragon's bombs to take out a ship, than a ship's guns to take out a dragon."

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry mused, and then shook his head, returning his thoughts to the earlier mention of special abilities. "What was that you said about fire-breathers? That there aren't any?"

Celeritas sighed. "It is a common false belief of people, but not all dragons breathe fire. Some do, of course. There are most notably the French Flamme de Gloires, and the famous Kazilisks of the Turks, and the smaller Flecha-del-Fuegos of the Spanish, but… well, as it is, England has not a single fire-breather in our lines," he said and shook his head. "Our acid spitters are nothing to sneer at, however, and a good Longwing can do as much damage, sometimes even more, than a Flamme de Gloire. At least acid will not be put out by rain or spray of water."

Harry eyed the old dragon silently for a moment, while in the courtyard Horntail looked around in astonishment. "You mean, none of those dragons can breathe fire?" Harry asked finally, motioning towards the courtyard. The mere thought was… confusing. He was used to the idea that _all_ dragons without fail breathed fire. Acid spitting was a new concept to him, of course, but a dragon was… well, a _dragon_. And to him that meant fire and flames and temper.

"Obviously not," Celeritas said, turning his eyes down to Harry with a look of mixed confusion and curiosity. Then he lifted his head, in astonishment, as Harry's look of confusion and disbelief sank in. "Oh dear," the old dragon said. "You don't mean to say… can it be that Horntail _is_ a fire-breather?"

"Well… yes," Harry said, shaking his head. He had nearly been burned by the dragon enough times throughout their fight, and wouldn't forget anytime soon. "She nearly smothered me by breathing smoke on me when I first woke up," he added, remembering the sulphuric smell that had sent him into a bout of coughs.

"Oh," Celeritas said, and looked like he didn't know what to say, just staring at him with wide eyes for a moment. "Mr. Potter… I think I must press on you the very severe need we have for a fire-breather," he said slowly. "To have one in our number would be truly invaluable. The damage a fire-breather can do, on a land position or on a ship, even on other dragons… the applications are numerous, endless. I feel I must, very sincerely, suggest you consider your and Horntail's entrance to the Aerial Corps."

"Yeah, I figured you should," Harry muttered, thinking about it. "And if we don't?" he asked.

"Then it would be to the breeding grounds with her," Celeritas said, to which the boy gave him a stricken look. "If we cannot have her aid in our battles, then we are left with the hope of her bearing eggs and thus adding to our lines."

Harry stared at the old dragon in horror for a moment, before shaking his head quickly. "You won't be able to force her _breed_!" he said, a little too loud, while Horntail gave an uneasy look to the dragons around her, and then quickly moved a little back. It was hard enough to find himself being also a dragon and a _female_ dragon, and now to add _that_ … "She won't," Harry said strongly. _He_ wouldn't. The mere idea was… yeah, _no_.

"Perhaps not," Celeritas agreed, looking towards the castle thoughtfully, brushing his snout with his talons again. "But if there was ever the slightest chance… well, it would be worth it to press the possibility upon her. It is entirely possible that even if you two would join the Aerial Corps as combatants, the concept of her bearing eggs, and the possibility of those eggs hatching fire-breathing dragonets… well, it is a very promising concept."

Harry shuddered and stood up. "Thank you for… for explaining this all," he said quickly. "I think I… I need to think about this. Me and Horntail both, I need… time. Yes, time."

"Of course," Celeritas said, and then gave him a hard look. "Forgive me, Mr. Potter, it was not my intention to make you feel uneasy. Rest assured, if you and Horntail were to join the Aerial Corps, I assure you that you would be welcomed most heartily, and valued highly," he said gently and then coughed, now seeming a little awkward. "Also… once word of her fire-breathing capabilities spreads, I suspect you will be faced with some level of enthusiasm from the officers, ensigns and cadets here. Pray, pay it no mind."

"Alright, I won't," Harry said, and since Celeritas said nothing more, he made his way back to the courtyard, and to Horntail. There he curled upon himself, Harry nestled into Horntail's side, and Horntail wrapped her wings around them both, and so sheltered, he began to think, hard.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the hunger won. Both Harry and Horntail were starved, the dragon more than the man, after who knew how long in the forest. And besides, Harry had a feeling that the dragons had been kept hungry before the First Task, to make them more ferocious in the fight – like facing a threat to their eggs wasn't incentive enough. In the end, the hunger became agonising for both of them, and trying to think straight with a ball of that in their stomachs was hard, eventually impossible. Any longer, and they would truly become starved, instead of just feeling like it.

Still, the concept of raw meat was still… no, Harry wouldn't be able to eat that, not even as a dragon. Dragons probably ate raw meat all the time, but he just couldn't adjust his mind to that, no more than he could eat something _alive_. Hunger, no matter how pressing, didn't change that, which left him with the necessity of finding a way around it.

He rather doubted he could convince anyone to _cook_ for Horntail. As far as he saw all the other dragons ate their food raw and sometimes wiggling, so it didn't really bear asking. Thankfully, he didn't really need to, as Horntail was fully capable of cooking her food for herself. The logistics of it, though, were a different thing. For one, killing the cow – which Harry thought he might be able to handle after a while, but not just yet, not after witnessing the first butchery. And for two, the cooking itself. With the amount of flames the Horntail was capable of producing, she would reduce any meat to cinders if she tried to roast it.

Which meant Harry would have to – which, in turn, a offered couple of problems. For one, he doubted there were big enough cooking supplies anywhere near. Handling the meat wouldn't be too difficult, once he swallowed the memory of the first butchery – he had cooked meat before, often even, for the Dursleys, so he wasn't too queasy about that. But the meat he was used to handle was the bloodless, neatly pre-cut type you got from a store, which didn't even look like it was part of something living, but just like a steak about to be fried, and nothing more. Fresh butchered meat was a whole different roast.

But the hunger was really starting to get bothersome, for both of them, and painful for Horntail. So, he swallowed his worries and loosened himself from the coils of his other body, before gathering his strength and heading to talk to the men, who had brought the first cow for Horntail.

"She feeling like eating now?" the men asked, expectant.

"Yes, but it will take some doing. The sight of blood and raw flesh makes her queasy, at the moment," Harry answered, gaining a bewildered look in answer. "I figured a way around it, so we're going to roast the cow."

"You're going to do what?" the men asked, sounding half outraged and half amused. "Now, listen here, lad, just wait a while, the hunger will start telling on her and she'll –"

The man stopped at Harry annoyed look. "She won't eat it if it's raw, and she's starving already," he said. "So, could you just kill one of the cows for her – somewhere she can't see it – and bring it to me. Without the head and guts, maybe the hooves too, if that wouldn't be too much trouble. And I could use some chain, maybe a hook if at all possible. We'll figure out the rest by ourselves, you won't need to bother."

The men exchanged a telling look, before one of them sighed. "Well, Keynes did tell us to get her to eat no matter what it took. We might as well give it a go," he said, and gave Harry a curious look. "You suppose you can do the roasting by yourself, lad?" he asked then. "You can't just go cutting down trees here, so however do you think you can manage to build a fire?"

"I won't need to," Harry shrugged. "Just, if you could. I'd be really grateful."

Now more curious than disbelieving, the man nodded. "Give me half an hour, and I'll have the cow butchered and beheaded for you," he said. "And you wanted a chain and a hook? To hang the cow up, I suppose," he nodded to himself and looked at one of the others. "See to it, will you, Wilkins?"

"This is ridiculous," the man, Wilkins answered. "You don't really think that –"

"Just get the chain," the first man said. "We'll see how it will all turn out soon enough."

The other man gave him as disbelieving a look as they had been giving Harry, as the man turned and headed off, snatching a cleaver from a nearby work bench and whistling as he went. Then, shaking their heads, they got back to their work, Wilkins getting Harry a length of chain with a savage looking hook on it and handing it over with a somewhat sardonic expression.

"Now what do you think you can do about it?" the man asked.

"Hopefully a lot," Harry answered, holding the chain up. It looked long enough. "Could I get a knife or a cleaver or something too?" he asked hopefully, and was soon supplied with one – a little rusty, but that didn't matter. "Thanks," he said, and headed back to Horntail who was looking around for a place to go about their plan.

The shoreline of the lake seemed like the best bet – it was rocky with nothing growing near the shore, so they probably wouldn't set anything on fire there. Satisfied, Harry and Horntail settled down to wait, both slightly twisting with hunger, until some twenty minutes later the man who had headed off to butcher the cow returned, wheeling the dead animal in a cart. To Harry's relief it was headless, hoofless and had been gutted, but it was still a little bloodier than Harry would've preferred.

Not much he could do about that, though, he swallowed the disgusted shiver and instead inspected the cow, while the man beside him watched with open curiosity. "What do you intend to do, then?" he asked.

"Hang it up, and roast it," Harry answered, and after a moment figured that the hook was useless – the cow was too big for it to hold and not tear through the flesh. He would need to tie the chain around the legs instead.

"Here, let me help," the man said after Harry had started to do just that, and with his help Harry managed to somehow clip the chain links – which thankfully had carabiner hooks in them and chains could be strapped around the joints of the cows back legs securely.

Satisfied, Harry nodded to himself, and then held up the chain for Horntail, taking it into her mouth neatly. "We'll go to the lake shore, so that we won't set anything on fire," Harry said, and then gave the work man a thoughtful look. The man did seem curious about the whole thing. "Would you like to come along?" he offered.

"Ah, well," the man hesitated, giving Horntail a look. The curiosity won and the man nodded. "Yes, I think I would. I suspect we'll be walking?"

"I was going to fly on her back," Harry answered, giving Horntail a look. Obviously she had no harness, but… "The spikes are pretty easy to hold onto," he said. "You wouldn't fall."

"Well… maybe I will walk after you; it isn't that far away," the man said uncertainly. "No offence meant, lad, but I haven't been on a dragon's back that many times."

"Suit yourself," Harry nodded, and then quickly climbed onto Horntail's neck, taking a hold of the shoulder spikes. "I'll see you there, then," he said, and after stepping aside a little, Horntail flapped her wings and took off, easier now than the first time, though the cow hanging by a chain from her jaw made it a little difficult.

Landing wasn't any more graceful than it had been when they had arrived at Loch Laggan, though it wasn't any less so either. After halting completely, Horntail tucked her wings in before curling into an easy loop, Harry coming down from her neck in one smooth slide, getting used to the disembarking now. His ribs stung a little, brushing against her shoulder, but he ignored it in favour of seeing to the cow.

He was just hanging the cow's chain on the long, sword-like spike of Horntail's muscular tail, when the man from before came to the shore – with a couple of other curious spectators following. Harry only then realised that maybe it would've been easier if they hadn't come – he had yet to try the Horntail's fire-breathing and if he failed to do it, that would be somewhat embarrassing… but then again, at this point it didn't matter much. They already thought he was a half-wit, so what was a little more embarrassment on top of what he had already suffered?

"Now what are they on about?" one of the spectators asked in not that quiet a whisper, while Harry took a stick from the shoreline, and Horntail felt around her mouth with her tongue, trying to figure out how the fire-breathing worked. Harry ignored them, and instead concentrated onto the dragon part of him, breathing in and out, trying different ways until, finally, she breathed a flick of smoke out of her nostrils, effectively silencing the men watching.

After that it took a couple of deep, resonant breaths until she, so easily that it felt a little silly for it to have taken so long, breathed out a burst of flames, short and quickly gone, but definitely hot. "There we go," Harry said with triumph, Horntail humming with satisfaction, and together they turned to the cow.

The first flick of it ended up with the cow's fur catching on fire, much to the horror and astonishment of the viewers. But Harry didn't mind as it was a shaggy thing and he hadn't been looking forward to eating that much hair anyway. So, he waited until the whole thing was burnt, gagging a little at the smell of burning hair, before having the Horntail reach out with her tail, and douse the entire cow in the loch. Then, lifting the steaming thing up again, they started to work in earnest, figuring out the right amount of flame and how to expel them out so that the whole cow wouldn't burn to a crisp, and how to spit them just so that the heat enveloped the entire side of the cow instead of missing it mostly.

It got easier, the more he tried, and soon he figured a way to breathe that let the Horntail douse the cow in the ends of the flames for a good two minutes before having to stop to draw a breath. It was good, because he had been a little worried that she'd run out of fire, or get tired or something, but it seemed like she could keep on going with relative ease, so as long as she got a break every now and then to catch her breath. Once one side of the cow was brown and a little crispy, Harry used Horntail's tail and the stick to get it around, so that she could roast the other side as well.

It took a good half an hour before he was satisfied with the whole thing – and he had to admit, he did feel a little silly in the beginning, but by the end the whole thing started to look less like playing around with fire and more like cooking. It helped that the smell of burning hair was eventually taken away by the wind, and the smell of roasting beef turned more prominent, covering the entire shore in a smell that made Horntail's belly rumble audibly, and her mouth water – though, for Harry, the smell was a little too strong and strange, him being more used to cooking with the smells of spices thrown in, rather than to the smell of roasting meat alone.

Once the cow was starting to look more like food and less like a dead body, Horntail wasted no time at all. Determinately not thinking about the fact that the cow was still full of bones and sinews and whatnot, and still no doubt raw on the inside, Harry used the stick to ease the heated, nearly red chains from the cow's legs. Then Horntail took the thing and began eating while Harry turned to look away – both of them paying as little attention to the process of eating as possible, even as she devoured it as quickly as she could.

It was only then he realised that they had a much larger crowd of spectators now, and not just the workers. There were also plenty of people wearing the bottle green coats of what he now supposed were Aviator uniforms, as well as what looked like all the dragons of the covert, scattered about the upper part of the shore, watching.

"What?" Harry asked, while Horntail swallowed the back end of the cow in two quick bites, letting out a hum of satisfaction as the urgent hunger was sated. Or at least part of it.

"Good god," the man who had helped him with the cow said, but didn't seem to get anything more through the shock.

Harry shook his head. Whether it was the make-shift spit roasting or the fact that Horntail was a fire-breather than seemed to have struck them all speechless, he didn't care. Horntail's belly might be full now, but _he_ was still starving, even more so now, after having worked so long at the task of roasting the cow. "I'm hungry," he said, figuring that he might as well make some use of the whole being a half-wit thing. "Where can I get food around here?"

"At… at the castle, sir, of course," the workman answered dully, and with a satisfied nod Harry had the Horntail pick the chain up, before climbing onto her back and leaving the crowd of people and dragons behind. He'd worry about being weird or impolite later – right now, he couldn't think past the thought of _food_.

 

* * *

 

For almost half an hour Harry sat alone in the dining hall, eating through several plates the servants readily supplied him with, and drinking through three glasses of water before he was brought tea instead. By the time his stomach started to protest, the crowd that had been hovering near Horntail had started dispersing a little, and moved instead indoors, though the dragons still remained, watching her at a distance with badly covered curiosity. Harry, washing the last of his bread down with a swallow of milk tea, ignored them and Horntail closed her eyes, giving finally to the heavy weight in her belly, and drifting off into satisfied slumber.

Harry thought he would rather follow her, but as the final of his plates was taken away by a servant, who gave him a rather congratulating pat to the shoulder – probably more due to the food he had eaten than because of anything else – the aviators from outdoors began to trickle into the dining hall. Chapman was among them, but it was another, a slightly younger man who spoke first.

"Her name is Horntail, sir?" he asked with barely veiled eagerness.

"That's what I call her," Harry agreed, sipping his tea now, stomach a little too full for full gulps. He rather wished, then, that he had thought of a different name. It was kind of like calling a dog by the name Dog, or more precisely, calling a bloodhound Bloodhound. It was probably stuck by now, and he doubted that it could be changed at this point, so he let it be. It could've been worse; it could've been Norbert.

The people, who now seemed to be crowding around the table where he sat, were quiet for a moment before someone pushed Chapman forward a little. "Uh. Potter," the man started, and Harry glanced up. "The men here are wondering whether or not she’ll be joining the Aerial Corps," the lieutenant started.

"It would be prodigious good for the Corps to have a fire-breather!" someone sighed with wistful enthusiasm, and there was a murmur of agreement around him, and they looked at the wizard with looks of excitement on their faces.

Harry frowned, looking at them and wondering. Were they interested just in general terms, or something else. Celeritas had said that he – or _Horntail_ – would have a crew of something like thirty people. Were they hoping to be among those thirty? Leaning back in his chair and lowering the cup, Harry wondered what it meant, to be part of a dragon's crew. Was it a good sort of job?

"I don't know yet. I haven't decided," he said finally. He had barely thought about it all that hard. First too hungry, and now he was too sleepy. Shaking his head, he smothered a yawn and stood up. "Excuse me," he said. "It's been a long couple of days."

"Right, of course," Chapman said, straightening up and losing some of the excitement he had been barely hiding, becoming serious instead. "Come right this way; there's been a room readied for you."

"There has?" Harry asked, surprised. He had been thinking of sleeping beside himself, the warmth of Horntail keeping him cosy throughout the night. "That's… nice of you, thank you."

As the other aviators parted, Chapman led him out of the dining hall, through the castle and to a corner room in one of the towers, where there was a bed waiting for him, along with a pile of some spare clothing. "You ought to have your own clothing back in a day or so, once they've finished cleaning and drying and whatnot," Chapman said, while walking to the window and checking to see that it was firmly shut. "But we've got enough leftovers from old cadets and ensigns that we can spare you a few. Do not hesitate to use them."

"Alright," Harry nodded and sat down on the bed – a little gingerly. It was much softer than he was used to, after the couple of days spent in the woods with Horntail's forearm being the softest, warmest thing to rest upon. Oddly enough, the softness of the bed made his body complain, and aches he hadn't even noticed begun crying out. "Would it really be so good for you lot, if Horntail joined the Aerial Corps?" he asked, while peeling back the cover of the bed.

"Oh, definitely," Chapman said, nodding a couple of times in emphasis. "Most of what we do is patrolling the channel and the North Sea. And if the frogs will really start campaigning against the Netherlanders, and if they win, well, we’ll have to do a good deal more than patrolling I suspect. The greatest danger we have is that the French will cross the channel, and the Navy can't always catch them, especially not if they’ve got dragon support…."

"And a fire-breather would be useful there?" Harry asked.

"Of course. There's nothing better against a ship, than a fire-breather. And Horntail's a heavy weight too, I suspect alone she could take out half a fleet, given some training and good support," Chapman nodded fervently, and then looked down at him, realising what he was saying and gentling his expression. "I don't… want to put any pressure on you, Potter, or on Horntail. But the need is most dire. The French are distracted elsewhere and, who knows, maybe they will be beaten before it will ever become an issue. But if not, well. One more dragon, heavyweight or fire-breather or no, could come in handy."

"I see," the wizard nodded, running a hand across his face, to remove his glasses and place them on the small bench beside the bed. "I'll think about it," he promised, before carefully stretching himself out on the bed. "Oh, it feels like I got bruises on my bruises," he groaned and then sighed. "Tell me, what is it like for a dragon to be in the breeding grounds?" he asked.

Chapman gave him a look and the thought about it. "Easy," he finally said. "They don't have to do much anything, just eat and behave, and of course breed when the breeders have set up a match for them. The Pen Y Fan breeding grounds aren't a bad place, overall – they’re spacious and there are plenty of caves for the dragons to live in. Most of the dragons there are retired, or ferals."

"And if a dragon doesn't want to breed?" the wizard asked quietly, yawning.

"Well. I suppose it would be pretty hard to force them to," Chapman said and gave him another look, just as Harry's eyes begun falling shut. If the man said anything more, the boy didn't hear it, already drifting off to slumber.

He dreamed of the magical site of the Celts, in the depths of the Forbidden Forest, quiet at first and then the centre of bustling activity, as a centaur led Professor Dumbledore and a great deal of teachers there. The centaur was pointing at the damage done to the trees around the site, their branches fallen or snapped, and then at one recently fallen over stone column that had broken the ring of otherwise nearly perfectly pitched up stones. They walked among the stones, talking, though Harry couldn't hear it, and after a while Dumbledore looked down and then crouched and took something from amidst the wildly growing grass and moss.

Harry's holly wand, crooked and slightly burned but miraculously still in one piece.


	5. Part I, Chapter V

Horntail was the first who woke, snapping out of a dream mostly about circling the Forbidden Forest, in the early hours of the following morning while all the other dragons were still asleep and the grounds surrounding the Loch Laggan castle were silent. The silence was welcome though, after the excitement and bustle and confusion of the previous day, and she embraced it, carefully sneaking away from the other dragons and to the lake, to have a drink.

Now, that her mind was clearer and no longer clouded by hunger, and the pain of the wound was fading to a distant ache, she examined herself curiously. She was already used to the body, of being a dragon instead of a man, a boy, but it was one thing to give herself a passing glance and force herself to make due, than it was to take her time stretching out and moving her wings this way and that, to see how far they would go – and to go through every inch of her own hide, to discover old scars and marks.

She was, even at a passing glance, different from the other dragons at Loch Laggan. They were a pretty colourful bunch, like Laetificat who was bright orange and yellow, and Celeritas who was golden and striped. The others were a varying assortment of browns and blues with some green and white, occasional something duller thrown in. The little Greylings, in their single, rather flat hue were a rare thing, she had observed.

Horntail, though, was a dark bronze, with patches of darker brown here and there where the horns grew and the shadows fell. Her horns were mostly white, though it was a dirty, natural shade of white. The darkest of the lot was the horn at the end of her tail, being so dark that it was almost brown, though that was probably more because of how it was used, than how it grew. With a little bit of trying and testing, swinging it this way or that, she found that it was rather alarmingly easy to thrust it forward, rather like a sword – she could even thrust it forward over her back, like a scorpion might, though it was easier to do it below her belly.

She could easily imagine how it worked in fighting, or hunting. Dragons like her dived through the air, until they caught something and then, holding that something still with their legs and talons, they would use the spike of their tail to skewer their prey. And with the length of the spike, it would be a borderline miracle, if anything survived that.

It was no wonder Horntails were considered the most dangerous and vicious of all dragons back… back _there_. They had obviously evolved to hunt not just your usual prey, but also other dragons.

With her inspection over, Horntail settled down on the moist stones of the lake shore, looking over the water and letting her thoughts stray. Now that nothing else distracted her, she could feel a sort of echo of her other body, as it slept. Harry wasn't dreaming, wasn't moving and rested perfectly peacefully, but the feeling still came back to her, the sense of blank comfort and relaxation. It probably worked the other way around too, when she was asleep and he awake, but in the previous days there had been many other things to work as distraction, and she hadn't paid much mind to it.

She wondered for a moment if she could make him wake up, if there was a way to mentally nudge Harry's body out of slumber by force of will alone. She decided against it – the human body was still tired, and aching after the exertions of the previous days. Best let it rest and recharge.

Instead, she let her thoughts wander. The idea of the time and the world around her was starting to sink in, sped by the wings of the other dragons, the year seventeen ninety four, two hundred years back in time, yet in a wholly different world. It had to be different, her world had never had dragons working in an aerial corps. They were too wild, too vicious and probably not intelligent enough for that. It was still a… weird thing to think about, but not any weirder than a hidden nation of wizards and whatnot.

The thought of being part of it, though, was.

Laying her head down and breathing a cloud of steam at the waves coming up the shore, she tried to imagine how it would be. Her, under harness, with two dozen and more people clambering about her, firing rifles from her back and dropping bombs from her belly. And Harry, sitting at her neck, pretending to be her _captain_ , and her pretending to be his dragon.

She would've been lying to herself if she hadn't admitted that it was an alluring thought, exciting even. It excited Harry too, in that way tales of wars and battles and glory excited young boys but it felt different, when she thought about it. Exciting, yes, interesting too, but also something else. Something more. It was hard to figure the feeling out, but the thought of trying her body, her fire and her tail against other dragons was both terrifying and unspeakably exhilarating, and a prideful part of her she hadn't realised she had smugly thought that she'd do well, that she was obviously built for it.

It was a shock to realise that she thought differently as a dragon, than she did as a man. She was still Harry Potter, she was nothing else but Harry Potter, but as Horntail… her mind, _his mind_ , went through paths and thoughts she wouldn't have considered, as a human. Humming to herself, she wondered why. Brain chemistry, perhaps? Or just the fact that the Horntail was simply more used to thinking of battle that she thought about it too, even if her mind was different now? She didn't feel as troubled as Harry did, either. The concept of the breeding grounds was still a little uncomfortable, but she didn't fret about it like Harry had, with all the disgust and unease of a fourteen year old boy. She didn't obviously fret about the fighting either, even if there would probably be pain and blood and, who knows, guts and gore and whatnot.

It wasn't like with the cow – she doubted that if she entered the Aerial Corps and killed a dragon anyone would demand that she'd eat it. It would still be uneasy and a little off putting, but she thought she could handle it, like Harry had handled Quirrell and the Basilisk and Tom Riddle's Ghost. That wouldn't be a problem. So as long as eating raw meat wouldn't be involved, that was something she doubted she could get past, even as a dragon.

It was probably having been raised by Petunia Dursley. She hadn't been much of a care taker, but she had been meticulous about hygiene and about food preparations, and instilled Harry with many, many nightmares about all the illnesses and diseases people could get from badly prepared food.

Horntail snorted. Aunt Petunia and Professor Snape would've gotten along well, she thought, one lecturing about the evils of badly made medicine and the other of badly made food.

After a moment of amusement, she peered up at the sky, cloudy but warming up with the rising sun, paining the bottoms of the clouds in peach and gold. She had to wonder why no one had come for Harry. Surely they had to be investigating. A boy – the Boy Who Lived at that – vanishing with a twenty ton dragon in the middle of a public tournament. The site was there, and there should be some magical ways of figuring out what had happened, right? It shouldn't be that hard to activate the site again and… and….

No, it wouldn't be that easy. A young wizard's desperate magic and a dragon's blood, in the middle of an emotion charged battle? Plus Harry's mother, dream or no, and what she had done… if that even had been real. Harry wasn't a fool and neither was Horntail, different thought patterns aside – they knew it wouldn't be as easy as flicking a wand, pushing a button.

Harry was trying not to think about it, he didn't like to worry and fall into depression, but for Horntail it was easier and so she faced the facts. It was unlikely that anyone would be able to find them – or follow them. They were in another world in another time and even if someone could've found their way there, what good would it do? They were now miles and miles away from their original entry site. If someone, like Professor Dumbledore, would find his way through… how could he find Harry? With magic maybe, but….

Hearing a dragon's call, Horntail lifted her head to glance up. One of the dragons was coming down to the shore to drink, one of the middleweight dragons, golden hued and striped, a little like Celeritas but not quite. The dragon gave her a sideways glance before ducking his – and she was sure it was a _he_ , though she wasn't entirely sure how she knew – head into the water, and taking couple of long gulps.

After drinking, the golden hued dragon gave Horntail a thoughtful look, before sitting back on his haunches, rather like a cat or a dog but infinitely more impressive. "I suspect no one has said it to you yet, so, welcome to Loch Laggan," he said, in quiet, polite tones.

Horntail perked up her head, surprised. Then, knowing that English would never come out her mouth like that, she merely nodded in answer, now feeling a little bothered by the fact that she couldn't speak. It would've been interesting to hear what the other dragons had to say about service in the Aerial Corps, but she had no way of asking.

The golden dragon nodded at her in turn, and then took wing, returning back to the covert yard without another word. Looking after her, Horntail sighed, before lifting her head and, after a moment of consideration, cleared her throat. "Thank you," she meant to say, and it almost felt like she had, but the sound that came out was a mixture of a growl and a snarling hiss, almost like parseltongue but much rougher, and with a sigh of dismay she closed her mouth again.

She and Harry could use it to pretend to talk, at any case. Like she supposedly understood English but couldn't speak it, he could supposedly understand her snarls and hisses. Maybe that way they could stop anyone from getting suspicious about their lack of communication, and whatnot.

 

* * *

 

Harry was still asleep and Horntail was perfectly willing to let him, when she returned to the courtyard some hour or so of thinking later, to find group of men talking amongst themselves outside. They stopped to look at her when she landed, and there were many thoughtful looks about their faces, as they looked her up and down, nodding to themselves and exchanging looks.

At first she thought they were just still excited about the previous day’s show of flames or something like that, and probably that was part of it. There was however some murmuring about her weight too, about how she was thin for her length and body type and how, with proper feeding, she might very well grow heavier in time. The words of fire-breather and heavyweight were whispered often, and Horntail was just about to start ignoring them and leave them to their mutterings, when she heard something that made the horns in the back of her head itch.

"A fourteen year old boy, with a fire-breathing heavyweight. It's a damned sacrilege," one of the men said, to the general agreement of others who nodded and looked dark about it.

"Not to mention about the fact that the boy’s a half-wit," another agreed, throwing a sort of longing, considering look at Horntail.

"Do you think… do you reckon," one of them started, leaning in a little. "How fond of the boy do you think she is? If she would welcome another, more experienced handler…."

Horntail lifted her head, staring at them with wide, disbelieving eyes as she caught their meaning. She opened her mouth to object, hesitated remembering that she couldn't speak as a dragon, and then wondered if growling at them would be a good thing – before the whole thing was taken from her hands.

"Stop that noise, the lot of you. It's no way to talk where the blessed beasts can hear," the dragon surgeon, who had patched Horntail up the previous day, snapped while marching right through the crowd of men. Giving them a disgusted snort, Keynes walked forward with brisk steps, and right towards her. "Now then," he said, resting his hands at his hips. "What's this I've heard about you breathing fire nearly non stop for half an hour, whilst injured?"

Horntail, too astonished to have the man berating her – when he couldn't have even known about the fire-breathing before someone had told him – couldn't muster more than a snort at the man, who snorted right back at her. "Well, nothing to do about it than to see what sort of damage you might have caused yourself. Lift your head and breathe in deeply," the man said, then stepped forward to press his ear against her chest, to listen.

It was just the first move of a long, begrudging examination while Keynes, muttering all the while, checked her over and listened to her chest and throat – he even demanded the chance to not only peer into her mouth, but to climb _inside_ to peer into her _throat_. Too surprised and baffled, she allowed him, striving to keep her forked tongue still as the man crawled over it, and not at any point even twitch her upper jaw, lest she bite the man.

"Well, it doesn't look like any damage was done – but no such feats again," the surgeon said, pointing a finger at her. "You're injured and still might get an infection, and the time you spent in that rainy forest while injured did not do you any favours. It's not exactly the warmest time of the year, and last thing you need is a sore throat to send you into a bout of cold, on top of that wound."

She hummed incoherently in answer, not quite sure how to take that particular order, while Keynes marked some things into a small note book he was carrying. "Now," the man said. "Let's see what we can make of your breed, shall we?" he asked, and turned around, calling towards the castle where his assistants from the previous day were coming, carrying some supplies with them – several dozen feet of measuring chord among them.

For nearly an hour, Keynes walked around her while his assistants clambered about her, measuring her from snout to the spike of her tail, and taking the measure between her wings and her wing joints. Then they were measuring of her chest and haunches, and legs in length and thickness in total and between their individual joints, making not only records of her talons but a drawing of her footprints as well, before carefully counting her teeth and taking the colour of her tongue and eyes. After that they went through the long process of counting all her horns, from the fourteen of her head to the forty-nine of her back and the eight smaller ones that surrounded the one long one at the end of her tail.

Keynes, nodding to himself here and there, ordered the final measurements and had Horntail's irises measured, drawn and the colour recorded, before he was satisfied. "It's hard to say yet, but we'll send these to some specialists, see what they make of them," the man said, giving Horntail one more stern look. "No more continuous fire-breathing, you hear me? Not at least for a week. If you can't stomach raw meat for whatever reason, we will come with other arrangements for that, but _no more fire-breathing_."

Horntail snorted at him, but nodded. He was, she was coming to realise, an expert, and would probably be a better one than she or Harry ever would, existential circumstances aside. Settling back down again and shaking her wings before folding them, Horntail considered herself a little lucky in a way – as strange as things were, she was in surprisingly good hands. Expert hands, even. It probably wouldn't have been anywhere near like that, had it been seventeen ninety-four back in their original world.

As Keynes and his assistants headed back towards the castle, discussing the measurements amongst themselves, the crowd of aviators from before caught their attention with some cleared throats. One of them asked something, of which Horntail missed the first words, but caught the end of, "… age is she, if at all possible?" the man asked.

"Surprisingly young. I'd say, two, three years," Keynes answered. "Of course I can be off as much as by two years to either direction, but I'd say that three would be a safe bet. She has mature growth at any rate, though she's underweight, and ought to gain a ton or two."

Horntail blinked with some surprise at that. She had thought that her body was older – she was, had been… a nesting mother, after all. That had made her think that she was at least over twenty or so. But only _three_? Three, and with eggs – and put into a tournament. No wonder she had been vicious.

"Over twenty tons and a fire-breather," one of the men muttered darkly, while Keynes continued walking. "She ought to be put to a real aviator; a _proper_ captain."

"Maybe we should look into that," another said, nudging another's shoulder.

Her thoughts about her age trailing away, Horntail turned to look at them with incredulous eyes, while in his bed Harry jerked awake, roused by the emotion. While she stared at the aviators who had been silenced by her move, Harry stared up at the ceiling of the room he had been given, his thoughts flying. After a moment, he was rolling himself out of the bed and pulling the coat he had been given on, barely stopping long enough to get some foot wear on and his glasses, before he was heading out.

Could they try and press another captain on a dragon, he wondered as he hurried towards the front hall. From how he had understood it, it all worked a little too close on an emotional level for any replacements and what not – it wasn't like an imprinted duck could be re-imprinted, or so he thought anyway. Of course, he and Horntail were nothing like that, but if they would try and keep him from her, then, then….

The crowd of aviators had already dispersed under Horntail's glare by the time Harry made it out side and to her side, but Harry couldn't quite relax before he was there, within his own view, and no one had tried to stop him. It was a very odd sort of fear to have felt, and he only felt the severity of it after the explosive relief replaced it. Like the fear of losing an arm or a leg, except much more than that, not quite as bad as fear of losing his life, but almost.

Taking a breath in both bodies and releasing it slowly, Harry climbed to the Horntail's arm, and held himself close. He hadn't considered the concept of separation before, not beyond wondering if distance between bodies might cause some sort of strain, unconsciousness or something like that. But he was fast growing accustomed to being two, and the idea that Harry would be held away from Horntail, so that someone else might try and harness her weight and fire…

He shuddered and buried his face in her hide, sighing, while she lowered her head, pressing her snout against his back, hugging himself for comfort. It had been an unnerving way to wake up, almost like coming to from a nightmare. That was probably why it had struck him so badly – if it had been just Horntail, she would've only felt indignation and then anger possibly, but not fear like he did.

Now that he was aware of the differences between the ways his bodies thought, it was easier to separate them. The awareness was still different – and so were the emotions, now that both of him were awake and fully aware – but there were more differences than just the obvious, it seemed.

After a moment, Harry started to feel a little silly. It wouldn't look like that to anyone watching – they saw him and Horntail as separate – but for him, holding himself like he was his own teddy bear…. Coughing slightly, Harry pushed away and Horntail lifted her head, easing apart.

It wasn't like anyone _could_ separate them, or replace one of them for the other. They were one and the same. And if Harry was kept away, it wouldn't take much as Horntail to get him back – and Harry suspected that, after she had set everyplace around her on fire, whoever was keeping Harry would be more than happy to return him, to make her stop. He had nothing to fear, really.

After having distanced himself from herself, Harry wondered what he should do next. He had run out of bed rather suddenly, and it would feel a little odd to head back after just _cuddling_ himself like he had. Yet neither of them were hungry or tired or in need of anything and no one was approaching them – there were some more people awake now and some dragons, but no one was making any move to talk to Harry and Horntail.

Feeling a little awkward just standing there, Harry took off his glasses and tried, with little success, to bend them back into their proper shape. He wondered for a while what he would do with them, when he got aviator gear. Aviators wore sort or, round goggles to protect their eyes from the wind, but he wasn't entirely sure how that would work with him. He would be half blind without his glasses and he wouldn't be able to wear them with goggles.

Lifting them back on, he wondered if there was a way to commission goggles with his prescription – did people even make corrective lenses in these times? Then, looking up at Horntail with surprise, Harry realised something.

 _When_ , he had thought. When, like it was settled. "Oh," he said and she growled with faint surprise, and realised that he had not only made up his – and her – mind somewhere along the way, but he was also relatively satisfied with the decision.

"I guess that's that, then," he muttered to himself, and then, tilting his head to the side, decided to try the idea Horntail had had, earlier.

"Yes, it is. It should be interesting, to be a battle dragon," Horntail answered, in growls and snarls, ending in a hiss. It sounded strange even to Harry's ears, but he could understand it and would have, he thought, even if he hadn't spoken the guttural sounds himself. "I wonder what my harness will be like," Horntail continued, now curious about how the words sounded from her mouth to his ears. "The shoulder straps would have to be different, I have too many horns there for that sort of wide thing."

"Maybe chains," Harry answered to himself, warming up to his strange exercise. He couldn't help but wonder if the language coming out from Horntail's mouth was actually Parseltongue as spoken by a dragon. It sounded so familiar, so understandable despite the oddest sounds in it. Nothing like Parseltongue as he had heard it spoken by Tom Riddle's ghost, or the few times Harry himself had spoken it, but… similar, very similar. And so natural.

Around them, the sound of Horntail's growling and snarling, the other dragons were lifting their heads, looking at her with some puzzlement, a couple having tilted their heads to the side like confused dogs, trying to listen to something no human ear could hear.

"Excuse me," one of them said politely in English, a greenish-grey hued middle weight with feminine voice. "What is that language you speak in?"

Harry and Horntail perked a little at that, and considered it. "We don't know its name," Harry answered finally, figuring that him, with his supposed memory loss, couldn't really go ahead and name the thing. It wasn't exactly like Parseltongue anyway. "It's just something she speaks."

"Dragontongue," Horntail said, testing. It came out more like _Dharshak_ , from her mouth.

"Dharshak," the green-grey dragon repeated, like tasting the word. "It sounds very strange. Is it a language spoken in some far off place?"

"I don't know," Harry answered. "I don't think so."

"Oh, I see," the green-grey dragon said, seeming disappointed, and turned away. That was, in the end, as much interest as the dragons seemed inclined to show the language Horntail spoke. After a while Harry realised they had probably been hoping to hear about distant lands or something like that, having never heard the language before. Well, it didn't matter, so as long as they took the thing as an actual language that Harry could supposedly understand.

"It's better than nothing," Horntail muttered, a little disappointed despite everything. It would've been nice, if it would've turned out that these dragons would understand her, as she spoke the almost-Parseltongue – it would've been nice to talk to them.

"You can't have everything," Harry answered himself, and then looked up as he saw one of the men from the previous day walking in his direction.

"Would she be looking to have something to eat, sir?" the man, who Harry realised is the same man who had helped him with the cow the previous day, asked, looking thoughtfully at Horntail. "Doctor Keynes was by the workshop, told us that she ought not to breathe fire like that again. So, me and the fellows have been talking and if she still would prefer to have her meat roasted, we might be able to cobble up something that would make the process a little easier."

Harry hesitated and glanced up at Horntail. She didn't feel hungry, no more than he himself did. "I am fine," he had Horntail say in her guttural _Dharshak_ and nodding, as if in real answer, Harry looked down again.

"She's fine for now, but I guess it will become an issue later on," he said. "What did you have in mind, um…? I don't think I caught your name yesterday."

"Brasher, sir," the man said, smiling, and then took out a piece of somewhat crumbled paper and showed it to Harry. "We were thinking of setting up a fire pit by the shoreline, that is, if Celeritas agrees with it of course. And if you and Horntail intend to stay for longer," he said, showing Harry a sketch of a fire pit and a spit they intended to set above it. "It shouldn't be too difficult to make, and there's enough scrap metal around to set the spit."

"It… looks good, Brasher," Harry nodded, surprised. He couldn't have said whether it was well or badly designed, having no notion about what fire pits and what one ought to be like, but it looked well enough designed. "That's very nice of you."

"Nothing to it, sir," the man assured with a smile and folded the paper before giving Harry a curious look. "Will you be staying for long, then, sir?"

Harry considered it and then nodded. "I suppose we will," looking up at Horntail and then down again. "I don't suppose you could tell me how I could get a meeting with Celeritas? I probably ought to let him know first."

"Oh, there's no ceremony, sir," Brasher assured. "There's no training flight scheduled for today, so Celeritas ought to have time enough – and he should be awake by now, too. How about we just go and see whether he's got the time?"

"If that's okay, sure," Harry replied and after nodding.

Celeritas was both free and welcome to chat with Harry for a while, especially so after the boy told him that he and Horntail would rather join the Aerial Corps, than go to the breeding grounds. "I know that I probably don't understand all the implications, and I am young and ignorant and whatnot, but maybe that's as much an advantage, and I'll learn quick?" he said somewhat hopefully.

"Don't worry about that, Captain Potter," Celeritas said with a snort, the title coming from his mouth easily and naturally like Harry had always been a captain, instead of being one for approximately two minutes and even that unofficially. "Your age is in no way a disadvantage, as far as training goes. Aviator training normally starts early, some cadets come to us at the age of seven at the earliest, and often times it happens that a dragon ends up, one way or another, with a young captain. As we speak we have a young man of your age waiting on an egg that should hatch in six months or less."

The dragon shifted slightly. "You are, of course, young for your rank, and will get some mild trouble for it from the men here. Under normal circumstances, it is only through promotion, good service and a long wait that a man gets the chance to harness a first rate dragon such as Horntail. So, some might feel the situation as an injustice towards them. But it is strictly forbidden in the Corps for aviators to meddle with one another's beasts, and after the initial surprise and jealousy passes, people ought to settle down."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, swallowing.

"Now. Under normal circumstances, we would begin training right away, first by assessing her conformation and abilities before starting her on manoeuvres and of course flag signals which we might just as well start right away. But your lack of training concerning military matters is an issue we also must rectify. Therefore, I think it is best that you, every now and then, join the cadets here in their lessons to gain some information on that score," Celeritas continued. "We will start with that while waiting on the Admiralty's answer for your enlistment and promotion. It is a formality at this point, but one must on occasion stand to bureaucracy. And at any rate, Horntail still needs some time to recover, as do you, so we have some time."

"Right," Harry nodded. "So, I’ll start taking lessons. Should I see someone about that, or…?"

"I'll have a talk with the lecturers to squeeze you into the most important classes," Celeritas said. "See Lieutenant Berkley about that – during his healing period he has been assisting Bennett, and should know where to put you."

"Alright. Thank you, sir," the wizard said, thinking back at the thick set man with the bandaged side. He nodded again, and took Celeritas' silence as dismissal, and headed back towards the castle.

 

* * *

 

Harry found Berkley, after asking a couple of times and nearly getting lost, in the officer's club, where the man was talking with some officers on board Laetificat – Chapman one of them. As Harry approached them, the men grew first quiet and then Chapman smiled up at him, asking him if he needed something.

"Celeritas wants me to join some of the lessons with the cadets here while Horntail recovers – he says that you, Lieutenant Berkley, could help me with that," Harry said, and hesitated a little as some of the officers around the club shared looks and muttered slightly.

"Certainly I can," Berkley said, throwing a glance at one of the men at their table, who had snorted. "Seems like duty calls, gentlemen. Good flight to you, and good luck," the thick-set man said, and stood up, easing himself out of his chair and then motioning Harry to follow him through the awkwardly quiet club, and out again.

"Never you mind them, they'll settle down," Berkley said, giving Harry's frown a glance. "Now. Can you read, write?"

Harry nodded, wondering what kind of pen they used in these times. Fountain pens, he supposed, which was good. He was now-days better with a feather quill and ink pot, than he was with pen and pencil, more used to the old fashioned nibs. Hogwarts was nothing of not incessant about its students writing – especially Snape with his two and three feet essays at every turn.

"I can also count," he added, thinking back to his muggle schooling. He was just about to tell the man that he knew a little bit of biology though most of that was nowadays magic enhanced thanks to Herbology and Potions lessons, and that he also knew his geometry somewhat well, before remembering that he was supposed to be an amnesiac. "Or so I think anyway," he added awkwardly.

"Well, we'll figure it out, no fear," Berkley said, clapping him on the shoulder a little heavily and leaving them both wincing with pain as Harry's ribs objected and the man's wound apparently did too, judging by the way he took his hand to his side.

Giving the man a slight grin at that, Harry rubbed his side gingerly. "I guess we're both currently out of action, sir," he said.

"Tch. I'm not a sir to you, lad," Berkley said in friendly tones, and led Harry into an empty classroom where there were tables full of scratches and the teacher's desk had a pile of somewhat torn books on it. "Let's get to it then," Berkley said, taking out some sheets of paper and not a fountain pen, but a dip pen which was just as well.

Under Berkley's eyes he wrote some lines, his own name, some things the man told him to write, and then a few sentences of his own choosing, to show the man that he could. Harry thought with some satisfaction that his hand with writing had improved a lot since his first year at Hogwarts – though it was nothing like McGonagall's elegant hand, it was perfectly legible – and pretty neat, that having been pounded into his head by many detentions with Snape who was nothing if not intolerant of bad penmanship.

"Hm. It will do," Berkley said after inspecting the paper. "I think you will have to write something longer so that we may see how you do with that. Now, let's see how you read."

Harry read very well. Hogwarts had never had stuff like English lessons or reading aloud, but association with one Hermione Granger had left Harry with a definite mark. He wasn't used to reading out loud, but he could do it and without too much difficulty too, and surprised Berkley when he could read and pronounce even the more difficult words right. Words like _aileron_ and such had nothing on some of the transfiguration terms, though.

"Very good," Berkley nodded. "Now we'll try some calculus."

Outside, Horntail had been left relatively alone and no more aviators had came near by her, or talked about replacing Harry close enough for her to hear, and she had almost gotten settled to take a early morning nap – not exactly necessary, she wasn't tired, but with everyone keeping a respectful distance and no one to talk to, she had nothing else to do. And, as interesting as it was to watch the other dragons, one could do that only for so long before it got boring.

She had just closed her eyes, when the flutter of wings caught her attention and she opened her eyes just in time to see Celeritas, landing with a graceful spread of his wings and settling down almost silently. He walked closer to her, folding his wings and looking at her thoughtfully, before sitting back on his haunches while the rest of the dragons edged further away out of respect.

"Well then," the old, golden hued dragon said. "Now that you and Captain Potter have made your decision, we must get to work. Since neither of you have much experience and no idea what to expect, I thought it best that I explained what follows. Please," he said, nodding for her to follow, snapping her out of her reverie. "Come this way."

Curious and, for a reason she couldn't explain, a little bashful, Horntail followed the elder dragon down and towards the half circle of wooden buildings of the workers. She felt too big at his side, as his shoulder barely reached her upper arm, but still, the age commanded respect. Not to mention that something told her that, should it come to it, Celeritas would best her in a fight, fire-breathing or no.

"Until you heal, there is little we can do, but we will do what we can. Firstly, you will be measured for a harness," Celeritas said. "It will take some time for it to be finished, but it should be ready by the time you're well enough for some more taxing flying. In the meantime you will also be taking some lessons on flag signals, though whether or not you can learn them is left to be seen – you are too old, but we must make the attempt."

Giving him a confused look, Horntail wondered if she had heard right. Too old to learn? Did dragons have a time limit to their learning period? How strange.

"Now, I know you oblige Captain Potter with no trouble, but it is essential we know how well you can handle other aviators," Celeritas added, nodding to some men waiting by the buildings, who came forward with measuring chords and got to work at her. "A dragon of your size would normally carry a large crew of officers and men, plus their ground crew during transport and other people besides, when the situation demands it. If you cannot conceive the concept of carrying anyone other than Captain Potter, we must know now, so that we can see if anything can be done to get around the problem."

Without any way of answering – anyway he'd understand, anyway – Horntail was left only able to nod in agreement. She didn't think she'd have much trouble, once she got used to it. Carrying a harness would be no problem – it wouldn't be any different from clothing, probably. Her biggest concern with people riding her was that it would feel like she had bugs or rats all over her, and could only hope that it wouldn't feel like that.

"Good. Now, once we're done here, I will introduce you to Captain Joulson, who will be teaching you and Captain Potter flag signals. We will begin you on them before him, as he has other lessons to attend to, and you have little else to do in the meantime," Celeritas said with an air of finality, and Horntail nodded again, wondering. Flag signals were probably what the flag waving between Laetificat and the other dragons had been about. That should be interesting – though she couldn't see how she or Harry could signal back, if they were signalled.

While the men clambered around Horntail, Harry worked with numbers and thought he dealt with it somewhat well – especially considering the distraction Celeritas had proved. Chalking it up as him growing more used to the duality of his existence, he looked down at his work. He had forgotten most of what he had been taught at his muggle school, but he could add and deduct and multiply well enough. Berkley seemed satisfied at any rate, somewhat surprised even, and when he took the paper away from Harry, he spent a moment thinking.

"Well, you have a good base to start from at any rate," Berkley muttered. "You'll do in one of our more advanced classes, I think, since we don't have to worry about teaching you to read, write and count."

"I think Celeritas is most worried about my lack of the military experience," Harry said, leaning back where he sat, behind one of the student's desks. "I know nothing about tactics and forms and stuff like that. I'm not even sure what the ranks all mean"

"A good first lieutenant ought to be able to help you with that, but I'll see about getting you some tutelage on it," Berkley said, nodding. "For now, I think putting you with the advanced class seems like the safest bet. They’ll be learning tactical manoeuvres, geography and whatnot, and we ought to be able to squeeze something about the Aerial Corps in general into your lessons."

Harry nodded gratefully – and then found to his surprise that Berkley intended to take him directly to the class. It was not far from the one they had used to check Harry's abilities, and as Berkley exchanged a few words with the teacher, a thin man with greying hair, Harry looked over at the cadets curiously.

They were all about four or so years younger than him, and all sporting identical bowl cuts and the same sort of breeches and shirts – by the looks of their books, they were studying dragon breeds.

After their discussion, Berkley clapped Harry more gently on the shoulder and then left him there, while the teacher, who was probably Bennett, looked at him and then at the class. "From here on, Captain Potter will be joining us for some lessons to perfect his education," the man said in an airy but carrying voice. "So please behave for him. Captain Potter, you may take a seat over there, the empty one beside Cadet Harcourt. Harcourt, be so good as to share your books with him until we can get him his own."

"Yes, sir," the little cadet – who Harry realised after a second look wasn't a boy, but a girl – said, and shifted back on her bench to give Harry more room. All the eyes of the cadets, of whom there were about half a dozen, followed him as he walked over, sitting down and feeling like a giant among them. He had never been particularly tall for his age, but among a bunch of ten year olds he felt like half a giant.

"Well then," the teacher said, opening the book he was holding. "Let's get back to the rigging of the Chequered Nettle, shall we? Who can tell us the approximate weight suitable for a Chequered Nettle's harness, taking into consideration the dragon's weight?"

The lesson ended up being pretty interesting, more so than Harry had expected, covering stuff about dragon's usual rigging, where what went and how, the differences between one type of rigging and another, how the rigging went and so forth, all the way to emergency repair and whatnot. It was unsurprisingly complicated, though the amount of bits and pieces that went into a dragon's harness was pretty surprising – and to see the sketches of dragons in battle harness on Harcourt's book was rather amazing. It looked more like battle armour, really.

After about half an hour, the teacher left the cadets and Harry by themselves, to write down answers to some questions he had them write down. Harry, who had no pen to write with or paper to write on, eyed the sketches in Harcourt's book, trying to picture the rigging drawn there on Horntail – whose measuring was now done, and whom Celeritas was leading to the old man who would be teaching her to understand flag signals.

"Sir? Sir? You're the captain of the fire-breather, right?" one of the little cadets asked, leaning closer with eager face shining. "The bronze one with the tail?"

Blinking Harry came out of his thoughts, turning his attention to the boy. "Ah, yes," he answered, a little awkward. "Her name is Horntail."

"Apt name!" someone piped, to the amusement of the others.

"What'choo doing here, since you're a captain?" another asked curiously.

"Well… I don't have any training with… with all of this," Harry said, motioning at the book. "Being Horntail's… captain doesn't really make me much of an aviator yet. I'll need to learn this stuff too, to be any good."

"Oh, you're a civilian!" someone said, and everyone stared at Harry with mingled confusion and astonishment. "How'd you go about harnessing a dragon if you're a civilian?"

"I really don't know," Harry sighed, wondering if he ought to start getting used to that reaction – that, and the badly hidden loathing for too young, too stupid, too ignorant and too unlucky boy who managed to _harness_ a prime dragon. "I can't remember," he added, when the cadets just stared at him, uncomprehending. "I knocked my head and can't remember much from before that."

"Ooh," they said in unison, nodding in understanding.

"That must've been a shock, waking up and finding yourself with a dragon," someone said. "If I didn't know anything about dragons, and suddenly woke up to find one like that next to me, I'd start like nothing you've seen before."

Harry smiled faintly at that, while the others laughed. They turned their attention to him soon enough, though, and then the questions were flying. How long would it take before he and Horntail became active in the Corps, had he chosen any of his crew yet, any of his runners, what classes would he be attending with them, and so forth. Harry tried to answer as well as he could but he didn't know the answer for most of the questions and could only shrug his shoulders.

"I suppose I will need to get my studies out of the way first," he answered and looked around. "I could probably use some help – I'm playing catch up here."

"Huh?" someone asked.

"I could use a tutor, to help me with this stuff," Harry said, pointing at Harcourt's book.

"But… you're older than us?" one of them more asked, than stated.

"Doesn't change the fact that I know bugger all," he answered, to mingled outrage and amusement of the other students. "So, anyone willing to help me out?" he asked again and immediately he had several offers, as everyone held up their hands to show that they would be more than willing to help him learn and that they were quite good at their studies and it would be no problem.

"What's this, now?" the teacher, Bennett asked, as he returned to find the class in something of a disarray. "Stop that noise at once and get back to your studies! Jones, get back to you seat, and Murphy, you get your feet off yours this instant!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I asked them if any of them would be willing to help me with my studies," Harry answered, hoping he hadn't gotten the cadets into trouble. "I didn't mean to cause such a fuss."

"Oh, a tutor? Take Harcourt, she's top of the class and probably a little ahead, she could use the distraction," the teacher said, and beside him the girl, who had been relatively quiet, flushed and looked down at her books. "Now, let's get back to work, shall we? Who can give me the proper order of the light duty harness? Clarke?"

As the class resumed, Harry gave the young girl beside him a glance. She was still staring at her books, and very studiously not looking at him. "You don't have to, if you don't want to," he offered her. "I'm sure someone else can help me."

"No, no. I'd be happy to help," she quickly assured and then looked down again nervously, and Harry smiled.

"Alright. I'll look forward to it," he said and then turned to look ahead, while on the other side of the covert, Horntail, Celeritas and Joulson were trying to figure out how their lesson would go. Since there was no way for Joulson to drill Horntail on whether she had memorised the signals or not, and no way for Horntail to answer except by nodding or shaking her head and on occasion pointing, it wasn't as easy as it usually was for dragons. In the end they decided to just go ahead and then Joulson would ask her if that signal meant this or that, and she could indicate her answer by nodding.

And so Harry's and Horntail's studies in the art of Aerial Warfare began.


	6. Part I, Chapter VI

The first week at Loch Laggan passed quickly. During it, Harry's enlistment was approved and, after two more grudging days of contemplation, his promotion as well and the men who had been whispering behind his and Horntail's back about how she ought to have a _proper captain_ quieted, somewhat. Harry knew the cause for that whispering and the hesitation a little better now. Men could serve years in the Corps without getting a chance to harness a dragon, and even then they might have to wait years on an egg, just waiting for it to hatch. Harry, at age of fourteen with a first rate dragon, even more valuable than a regal copper thanks to her fire-breathing despite being considerably smaller, was a miracle and a insult both to men who had dreamed tens of years of such a chance.

But with Celeritas and eventually the Admiralty standing behind him, there was very little anyone could say out loud – and, Harry found to his surprise, if they _did_ they would be turned down from the Corps. Quickly even, thanks to the fact that the Admiralty, after the initial shock of suddenly finding a fire-breather in the midst of the Corps, had fervently decided to "keep her by any means necessary."

With his enlistment and promotion, Harry found himself suddenly in a sort of between-worlds position. While he was hastily given some old clothing from other young aviators who had grown out of theirs, he was the only student in a bottle green coat with the captain's double bars at his shoulders, while around him were the bowl-cut haired cadets in their plain clothing, looking up to him with a sort of mingle fascination, awe and confusion. It was probably a stranger concept to them, and half of them tripped over themselves in attempting to talk to him like to a proper aviator, while other tried their best to become better friends with him, though whether that was honest like or an attempt on their part to win favours, Harry wasn't sure.

The between-worlds situation continued outside the classroom as well, where Harry was separated from his fellow captains by his age, and ignorance – even the lieutenants didn't interact with him much. And the few older and higher-ranked aviators that did, usually used soft tones and overly simplified sentences, speaking loudly as if he was half deaf and half-brained too. It didn't ease any, when Laetificat and her formation – who had apparently been taking it easy for a while due to some past injury – were stationed to Gibraltar and headed off without Harry noticing. The damage Chapman had in all good intentions done to Harry's reputation was pretty much permanent and if Harry wasn't considered a complete half-wit, then he was an idiot savant, with overall dullness but with sudden bouts of actual intelligence. Not that it was much better – and not that anyone used the term, as it probably hadn't even been coined yet.

For Horntail the whole thing was easier – especially so after Keynes had told the idle men around the workshop to indulge her on her preferences, so as long as it kept her eating. While her harness was being made, a fire pit was dug near the shore line, with some nicely shaped stones used to make walls to make it firmer, and contraption of wood, iron and whatnot build above it, where the cows and whatever else she was fed could be skewered for roasting. The food that this contraption produced ended up being much better than the instant-roasting she had made with Harry's help, and infinitely better tasting – without her own, sulphurous flame adding any strange tastes to it.

While watching the workers go about the roasting one after noon, she also realised why Brasher had been so eager to help her and Harry – and why the other workers had joined in. After they roasted her cow, with hooves, head and even the skin removed – to stop it from catching on fire, probably – the men were quite happy to use the remaining coals to do some roasting of their own. Sometimes it was steak and sometimes fish caught from the lake and always, somehow, behind the backs of everyone else, enjoying their sneakily acquired treats with hums of approval.

She didn't mind, though, and sometimes as she enjoyed her roasted cow, Harry would come to _see that she was eating_ and, inevitably, also be offered some of the men's treats, to placate him into saying nothing probably. He never did – the cooks at the covert were excellent, but they were too used to cooking for large group in large pots and kettles, and thus left the more delicate foods, like steaks and such, off of the menu.

And while Horntail wasn't eating, she was learning. Joulson, who had sagged with relief at realising that apparently Horntail could still learn, had taken her inability to do much else than lay about and wait to heal, as incentive. So, every hour she and the old captain had free, they were going through flag signals. And flag signals. And some more flag signals. At one point Harry, who was staying awake a little later to try and cram formation names and theories into his head, found himself watching how Horntail, her brain too full of the bleeding flags, went ahead and even dreamed of them, after the endless repetitions of the day before.

But, in the end the week ran out and Keynes, after checking Horntail's wound, decided that it wasn't about to get infected, and was healing well and she might as well stop idling about and get to work. It came at a good time, because just as he had left, the harness men of the covert pronounced that they were ready with her harnesses – all three sets and the battle armour on top of it. The first day of her being in active duty was thus spent not performing for Celeritas, who had been waiting the chance to see her fly properly, but at the harness fitting, as the men ran and crawled about her, first fitting the harness and then making awkward adjustments, trying to fit the gear around her shoulder spikes somehow.

It took the better part of the day to fit the light duty harness on her, with many changes and shifted straps and replaced bands and rings, until finally they had some idea what would go where and how. The main shoulder harness – one of the crucial parts of it, Harry now knew, went a little further down her back instead of being where it usually was on a dragon, and instead some three thinner straps were added and nearly woven through the shoulder horns, to compensate for the unusual shift. With that system decided upon, the rest was relatively easy as the changes to the travel harness and the battle harness could be done on the ground before it was lifted onto Horntail with the help of another, idle dragon who could lift the heavy gear easier than the men could.

It was dark by the time they were finished and the harness men announced themselves satisfied, and Horntail was left getting used to her light duty harness, while Harry climbed about it, trying to get used to it as well. It was a surprisingly comfortable contraption, all in all, though the feel of it being there was a little awkward at first. It proved more useful than Harry had suspected, though, as it eased climbing on her by leaps.

"Sir," Harry said after a while, turning to Celeritas who had been watching the harness with a professional sort of curiosity. "Do you think it would be alright for me and Horntail to take wing a bit? We'd like to see how it would work out, flying with the harness on."

"By all means," Celeritas nodded heartily and stretched his wings before standing up. "Just make sure you have your carabiner belt latched on, and neither of you stress yourself too much. We will begin training tomorrow and I want you in the best form possible."

"Yes sir," Harry nodded, Horntail growling along with him, and quickly he climbed to the prime position at Horntail's neck and latched the hooks of his carabiner belt, issued to him along with Horntail's harness, into the rings of the harness. Then, after a moment of stretching her wings and testing the weight of the harness, Horntail took a few hurried steps and then launched into the air with a leap and a beat of her wings, having figured the move in her short flights to the lake shore and back.

He had remembered vaguely, how lovely it had been to fly that time when Laetificat's crew had ordered him to follow. The memory didn't do the feeling any justice though. Maybe it was the pain they had been in, or the concentration forcibly set into staying level so that Harry wouldn't fall off, but this was nothing like that had been.

Horntail beat her wings furiously for a while, gaining altitude and speed that made Harry, more used to the speed of brooms, let out a cry of joy. The wind tore at his hair and nearly whisked his glasses away, forcing him to hurriedly push them into his pocket, but regardless the feeling was incredible. And not just on his human body, but both of them, more even for Horntail who felt the motion of flying in her every muscle, every bone, in every beat of her wings.

Without any urge to stop too soon or pause, Harry let go and did everything he had seen other dragons do, and more. Snapping her wings shut, Horntail fell into the lethal plummet that Harry had known would come so easily for her, falling towards the Loch Laggan lake like an eighteen ton – closer to nineteen now, though – bullet, before with a spread of her wings and drop of her tail, angling away in a quick, sharp move that brought her up nearly as fast as the plummet had brought her down, sped by her original velocity. Exhilarated by the success of the move, Harry did it again and again, growing closer and closer to the water line until the spike of Horntail's tail pierced the surface in the latest dive, cutting through it sharply.

Then they wove and ducked, flew in loops and angles and took out everything Horntail's body had to offer, doing everything she was capable of. Aside from the dive, the most exiting move Horntail could do was what Quidditch players called the Calloway's Corkscrew, which like its name said was a wild, spiralling dive towards the ground, in Quidditch used to escape from bludgers and, occasionally, confuse the opposing player away from a Snitch. By the end of the several dozens of feet worth of the spiralling dive, both Harry and Horntail felt a little light-headed, though more for the feeling of being able to do it, than because of any nausea.

When they landed, they were both breathless and Harry's eyes were dry and hurting a little, but Harry hadn't been so happy since the first time he had flown on a broom.

 

* * *

 

The flight training began with two days’ worth of testing, with Harry and Horntail flying in loops and circles, fast and slow, ducking and diving and then beating back up again, while Celeritas watched from the ground, giving orders and suggestions and just looking as they flew and flew on. Harry, who had been talking with the cadets about his and Horntail's upcoming training, had been expecting it – Harcourt had explained the method Celeritas used, first familiarising himself with a dragon’s capabilities, before putting them to use. It seemed like a logical way of going about it, so Harry didn't argue with it and instead kept at it.

They were in the middle of an agonisingly slow circle around the training grounds, when a shadow fell upon them and something enormous came down upon them, bellowing and roaring and very nearly crashing into Horntail's back. Startled, Harry hurriedly ducked to the side and out of the way and watched with some shock and confusion as one of the Yellow Reapers stationed at the covert plummeted past Horntail, beating himself up and back into the air after a while.

After checking up and down to make sure that no one else was about to fall upon them or attack them, and that the Yellow Reaper wasn't wheeling around for another pass, Harry released his grip on the harness and asked, in somewhat subdued tones, "what the bloody hell was that?" Horntail echoing him with a confused growl.

"Horntail, Captain Potter!" Celeritas called at them. "Come down please! Thank you for your assistance, Oriundus, you may go."

As Horntail touched to the ground, the confusion and shock of being so attacked started giving way to wary uneasiness, and both Harry and Horntail stared at Celeritas with distrust. The old dragon snorted, coming closer. "Do not take offence," he said, sitting back on his haunches. "Every dragon must be tested for their reaction to being startled from above. The instinct that overcomes a dragon's mind in such cases must be known and taken into consideration in both training and in action, whether it can be diffused or not."

"I see," Harry answered, frowning and climbing down from Horntail's back, the blankness of shock now turning in to the jittery feeling he always tended to get after being attacked, the one that told him to either run or fight but not, under any circumstances, stay still. "So, what do you make of it, then?"

"That sort of sideways leap is a little rare, but quite useful – it is sometimes seen on smaller middleweights, who rarely have much to fear from other dragons," Celeritas said approvingly. "It is especially useful for a formation leader, which Horntail will unquestionably become."

"Formation leader?" Harry asked while Horntail lifted her head with surprise.

"She is a fire-breather and a heavyweight besides," Celeritas said in agreement. "We will most likely put a more experienced captain and a dragon into the position of a formation leader initially, as both of you lack the experience as of yet, but eventually…" he nodded to himself, seeming satisfied. "Now, I believe I have learned your flying ability well enough. It is time to look into your fire-breathing. Come this way."

As the old dragon jumped aloft, Harry hurried to Horntail's back and clicked himself into the rings before she jumped after the training master. Harry, with his glasses tucked safely away and the goggles he had been given not helping him much in the sight department, saw very little, but Horntail with her perfect eyes could see what Celeritas had in mind even before they landed to discuss it. They were on the shore of the lake, a little off from where the fire pit was. The reason why they were there was obvious – there were targets on the lake, barrels floating here and there with probably weights in the bottom to hold them still, and with sort of awkward flags on top of them, waving in the air.

"I have already observed that you can breathe fire in at least two different ways – in long tongues of flame, and in the sort of billowing fire that covers more ground but doesn't reach as far," Celeritas said, peering into the lake. "We will be testing both of them. At my order I want you to target the flags, from as high as you possibly can. First in single targets then larger groups," he nodded at certain direction of the lake where there were more targets floating, in haphazard clusters."

Harry and Horntail nodded and leaped into the air. It took a good hour or so, as he flamed the targets from above, making passes and swoops while Celeritas watched, no doubt making notes of the reach and damage and whatnot, as one by one the first targets were sunk and then, as Horntail ducked lower, in clusters of flames that covered the lake's surface for a moment and then died out, only lingering on the sticks and barrels where the flags had been.

By the time all the targets were gone, they had a bit of an audience and there was wild cheering when Horntail landed beside Celeritas – both dragons and men had been watching the display of fire, the dragons nodding approvingly while the men clapped each other on the shoulder, almost like in congratulations.

"Very good. Forty, fifty yards I should say, about the same range as Flamme de Gloire," Celeritas said, nodding. "And twenty or so yards on your wider flame. How long can you breathe flame continuously?"

Harry hesitated, before having Horntail turn her head for the awkward but now common pretence of having a discussion, with her hissing and snarling an answer and Harry nodding like it was all news to him. He was getting more used to it, but it was still a bit uneasy, to pretend to be talking to himself in that way.

"Two, three minutes," he answered to Celeritas. "But we haven't really measured it."

"Then let us do so," the old dragon said determinately. "Someone fetch a glass," he said to the spectators, to which many were brought, and Horntail was directed to breathe her fire at the lake, while the time was carefully measured out with an hourglass.

"Two minutes, twenty seconds," the ensign holding the glass said, by the time Horntail ran out of breath and had to stop to pant.

"Good, good," Celeritas said, with grim sort of satisfaction, and as Harry stepped down from Horntail's back, some of the aviators that had been ignoring him before came forth to clap him on the shoulder and back approvingly. Harry, a little unsure of how to take this change in behaviour, endured with an awkward smile and nods, and made his excuses quickly as Celeritas dismissed him and Horntail for the day.

The following day, Harry was introduced to the three dragons and captains who were the first of his six dragon formation to arrive. Oriundus, who had been the Yellow Reaper that had attacked him and Horntail on Celeritas' order, Pennipes, a smallish Anglewing who had been called from Edinburgh along with Profundus, another Yellow Reaper. They were all older dragons and their captains, Akerman, Simons and Lane respectively, all had more than twenty or so years of experience in the Aerial Corps. Since Harry was so young and Horntail had little experience, they were assigned to his formation to cover for it.

"Your formation leader will be Quantuvis, a heavy Parnassian," Celeritas said, after the introductions had been made and Horntail had been put under very many curious looks. "He and Captain Mitchell have the experience and having worked as formation leaders before, they will know their business. Quantuvis and Hortensia, a Xenica, will be arriving from Dover Covert in a day or two. After that, we will begin working the manoeuvres of your formation and how to go about putting Horntail's abilities to good use."

The older captains and their dragons nodded, while Harry wondered about how it would all work out. Six dragons in a formation, with him in the lead, the middle weights and light weights in wedge formation at his side, and the heavyweight Parnassian taking the back, no doubt – it was, according to his text books, a common sort of formation.

"In the meantime, you Captain Potter and Horntail will begin on endurance training, as well as crew training," Celeritas said. "So far it has been only you, but it is time for Horntail to start getting used to having more people on her, as well as having guns being fired from her back. Do you think you're ready for that?"

"Always, sir," Harry answered, figuring that negative wouldn't be taken too well, and he was curious to see how it would go, having more people on board.

"Very well," Celeritas nodded.

Harry had never been to a boot camp, or talked with one who might've been, but after a day or two under Celeritas' ruthless training, he figured that boot camps were probably easier. First Harry and Horntail were flying in formation with Oriundus and Profundus, to get her used to having dragons flying by her. Then they were doing formation manoeuvres and certain sorts of loops and turns at certain speeds and certain wing beats, which was interesting at first but got tedious by the fifth pass.

And, at the end of it all, Horntail was directed to fly circles around the covert for as long as her wings could hold, to improve her endurance and stamina and to teach her to keep pace. It was only a little less boring than when they had to fly at a slow pace, which they would have to do in formation to keep pace with the slowest dragon of the group.

Worst of it all was the crew. As the days went by and the training grew more monotonous, the people selected to try working on Horntail grew worse. In the first days they were relatively quiet and did their work with a sort of practiced diligence. But eventually, the difference between Harry and them began to tell and, by the time the man assigned as his first lieutenant, Wilson, got bored of trying to explain things to Harry, who often got confused just by the phrases and idioms the man used, it got beyond bad and became awkward and disheartening. The men paid little attention to him, turning to the lieutenant instead for all orders and suggestions and in the end stopped paying any mind to Harry at all, only nodding awkwardly and smiling wooden smiles when he thought to say something, and promptly ignoring him completely.

Horntail had been assigned with some crew already, though those were only the ground crew that tended to the harness and rigging. Brasher, to Harry's relief, had been suggested to him as his ground crew master, and Harry had been happy to leave the rest of the ground crew decisions up to the man, who had more experience and seemed to like Harry and Horntail well enough to go about his work diligently.

The rest of the ground crew men that Brasher chose seemed good people too, though Harry had a hard time getting to know them, the harness master Dawson, armourer Appleton, leatherworker Royce and gunner Causey. Some of them were given assistants to work with, the harness master having several more than usual thanks to the difficulties of Horntail's harness, but Harry didn't know most of their names and left it at that for now, knowing that Brasher would make sure they did their work well enough.

Still, the situation with the crew was bad, and he didn't like it much. The men weren't permanently assigned yet, thank heavens, and there would be a rotation of the idle officers until the end of Harry's and Horntail's training so that the men could get training with handling different sort of dragons while Horntail and Harry got used to having men about her. But in the end Harry would be assigned with a permanent flight crew, topmen and bellmen and a number of riflemen on top of them, and if they would all be like the ones so far… he wasn't sure if he would like working as an Aviator too much.

But he kept at it, having committed himself and Horntail to the training – and if he now more thought back to Hogwarts and magic with a little more longing, no one was to know. He was used to being ignored at any rate – the Dursleys had trained him well there – and being ignored was better than being out right bullied, and none of the men keen on dismissing him could do that, not for the fear of Horntail's reaction.

And at the end of the day, after hours of manoeuvres and gunnery practice and endurance training which all ended with a few hours with Joulson, learning flag signals, most of which he _already knew_ but had to pretend he didn't, Harry was too tired to bother with worrying. Horntail usually went to sleep as soon as she had gotten her latest roast off the spit and down her gullet, and Harry following her as soon as he got to the nearest soft surface. He was very grateful for the ground crew on those occasions, as he no longer had to worry about Horntail's food – the ground crew had started up a rotation amongst themselves with the cooking duty, and if anyone found it tedious, they said nothing.

Still, the situation with the crew didn't ease, even when the next potential first lieutenant was put to Horntail. Reynolds wasn't much better than Wilson had been, in some instances he was even worse, and the crew exercises started to feel like a chore to Harry and Horntail, who had to endure the man strutting about and bellowing orders over any sound Harry might intentionally or accidentally make. The word was apparently going around and Harry was now starting to be sure that all his potential first lieutenants would be like that. He would have to eventually choose among them, a privilege of the captain standing even in his strange case, but he wasn't sure how he could pick the least worst one among a lot of bad ones.

On top of everything, the situation with the crew was bleeding out and into the formation as well. Quantuvis and Hortensia had arrived, and together the formation had started to work on the best sort of way to make use of Horntail. Quantuvis's Captain Mitchell, the leader of their formation, was man younger than the elder captains of their formation, but even at a distance Harry could see how capable the man was, walking with the sort of confidence Harry supposed only experience and skill could bring, and which was necessary in a leader. Hortensia's captain, Payne, was a bit of a surprise but not as big one as it might've been, had Harry not started his private lessons with Harcourt – Payne was a woman.

Neither Mitchell's capability nor Payne's gender helped much, though in the beginning the formation was friendly enough towards him, Payne even noting that it must be difficult to be the captain of a heavy weight at such a young age, but that they'd help him along, never fear. After a while, though, the rumours bled through and Harry started to be ignored in the meetings between captains, sitting a little to the side and only listening but not being invited to contribute. Not that he could've, but still.

The only ones who didn't seem to look at him down their noses were Celeritas who probably didn't care one way or another so as long as he and Horntail did their work satisfyingly, and the cadets with whom Harry now had lessons every other day or so. Some of the lessons were tactics and manoeuvres, others some stuff about harnesses and what not and there was something about history too – and then there was also stuff like learning how to load and shoot firearms, rifles and pistols alike, and _fencing_.

"Aside from the loading, you seem to have a knack for it," Lieutenant Griggson, who was the one who taught the cadets how to fire arms, said after seeing Harry shoot a few ready loaded pistols and rifles at targets. After Harry had gotten the hang of the differences with aiming, and the weight – and the kick-back that nearly sent him to his backside in the beginning – the trick of aiming wasn't that hard to manage. Three years experience with a wand helped him there, though – major part of every spell was aiming, after all.

"Yes, loading," Harry sighed, looking at the spent guns he now had to load for the cadets’ turn. That was the most difficult part. He had never held muggle fire arms, and the only one he had ever seen up close was Uncle Vernon's gun, and Harry couldn't even remember if that had been a rifle or a shotgun. Still, he knew that in the future guns were much more advanced – and had a lot more shots than one, and the loading was no where near as difficult. But… "I'll try and be faster this time, sir. And neater," he added, rubbing at the gunpowder stain at his fingers, and got to work.

Compared to that, he liked fencing much better, even if he had an easier time aiming a firearm than he had aiming a sword. Though they obviously didn't use real swords while training, just metal rods with sort of handles that left behind thin but stringing bruises, it was still no easier.

"The first and foremost fighting method on top of a dragon's back is fencing, though very few masters of the art would call the skirmishes by such a name," the teacher, Mr. Langley, said while whacking Harry on the shins to try and get him to settle into his preferred stance. "In any case, once your dragon is boarded firearms are spent in a trice, and after that it will be blade work. A good understanding of fencing can, and no doubt will. save both your life and the liberty of your dragon. So pay attention."

And Harry did, he really did, with both the future looming ahead in his mind, as well as the past, and the desperate fight against a Basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor. It didn't save him from bruises on his upper arms and on his sides, but at least he did not give up, nor would he. Even if there wasn't more a pressing reason, well. Fencing was just too _cool_ for him not to pay attention.

All the while, he also studied just with the cadets with no teacher about. One of the few methods a cadet could get a post on a dragon's crew was as a runner, or being promoted early to an ensign, and if such promotion didn't happen on dragon back due to merit or need, it happened through some remarkable feat in their studies. So, while they played around a lot, and slacked about at times, a lot of them also studied with nearly mental speed, cramming their heads as full of tactics and manoeuvres and the wisdoms of their predecessors as they possibly could.

 Still, of all the cadets the closest to Harry was Harcourt, who had, after her initial shyness, taken to her task of tutoring him with vigour and walked him through his formation and navigation studies as well as his history and the course the French Revolution had taken so far. For such a quiet girl, she was determined and steadfast when it came to her studies and her abilities, and she could talk him through confusing battles with ships and dragons and actually make him understand it in the end.

She was the one who explained to him the Reign of Terror and told him about the post-revolution famine that had led to the Glorious First of June, the first fleet action between France and Britain that had happened just in the summer of that year. Twenty five ships and fourteen dragons on the British side, twenty six and twenty on the French side, but still the battle had ended in the victory of the British.

"My father was there – he's a lieutenant on Fluitare's crew," Harcourt said, with unusual fervour shining through her usually quiet demeanour.

"Oh?" Harry asked curiously. "Is that why you want to be an aviator too?"

She was quiet for a moment. "My mother died when I was young. Father had no other place to put me to, so I was put here," she answered, and then frowned. "But I do want to be an aviator. I _will_ be an aviator."

"I'm sure you will," Harry answered, smiling. He had already decided that if the choice would be left on him, he'd choose Harcourt to be one of the runners on Horntail. She was good natured and hard working, not to mention a good teacher and good company. And mature too – it was sometimes hard to remember that she was only ten.

But it was still just one in a crew of what would no doubt be about thirty, and the further his and Horntail's training progressed, the worse it looked. The third man to work as the first lieutenant didn't prove to be any better than the two before and Harry was fast losing hope on that score. He was even starting to wonder if it would be easier to have no crew at all, but that thought was dismissed as soon as he had it. Horntail needed crew – needed people to protect her in a fight, needed riflemen to match the enemy fire and needed people to patch her up if she got wounded. Harry was far enough in his studies to understand that, even if it didn't make it any easier.

Then, finally, after some month's worth of training and learning, Harry and Horntail caught a sudden, lucky break he hadn't been expecting when Lieutenant Berkley, finally declared fit and ready for duty, was assigned to them. Though Harry hadn't talked with the man much since having been helped along to his studies by him, he remembered the man's demeanour well enough and, to his profound relief, it hadn't changed, neither towards Harry nor towards Horntail.

Berkley on the other hand found no relief in the post. With loud disbelief and even louder anger, he rounded on the crew as they tried to go through their usual motions of ignoring Harry, berating them into order with some casual but stinging remarks while the confused crew hurried to obey. "Unbelievable," the man said, watching back as Harry looked ahead, unable to see much with his glasses tucked away and concentrating instead on Horntail's gaze. "What a bunch of soft bellied slackers! I ought to send you to the army, get some liveliness back into you lot! You there, mind your bleeding post before I mind it for you!"

The biggest surprise and relief with Berkley was that he actually turned to Harry and addressed him with, "What do you think of them, Captain?" he asked with a frown and face still red from yelling. "Cream of the crop?"

Harry hesitated, glancing backwards. He was sure that some of the men were giving him surreptitious glares but, without his glasses, he couldn't even tell if they were looking at his way. "No," he answered honestly. "If what I've seen of the Aerial Corps so far is what it's like, it's a small wonder any of you are still flying."

"What would you know, half wit," someone muttered – and was instantly rounded upon by Berkley.

"What was that? Since when was that a way to address your captain? Why, you damned scrub, you can rest assured that I will have a talk with Celeritas about this," Berkley snapped. "And anyone else sharing that sentiment may as well go ahead and voice it and we can get this stuff and nonsense out of the way and have the whole lot of you removed from your posts!"

No one said anything, but the following day a whole new group of men started trying their hand at working on Horntail, and it was a whole different atmosphere they started that day's manoeuvres, both for the crew and for Harry, who for the first time since starting crew practiced could actually relax a little at his post on the base of Horntail's neck. It happened at a good time, too, as it was then when winter decided to descend upon Loch Laggan in earnest and what had been just cold and frisky weather turned into a cold and frisky snow storm, flying in which did no good for anyone's temper. Had the sour officers of before still been on board Horntail, it might have gotten ugly.

To Harry's delight, though, no explosions of temper ensued. He didn't care whether it was because the new men were better tempered, or because Berkley was keeping a very sharp eye on them or if everyone was just miserable enough to not bother. The day went, despite all disadvantages, well and no one complained much. Harry also learned more than a little, as Berkley did what all the other lieutenants had been too busy to bother with, and actually explained the manoeuvres, the orders and the reasons behind them.

The man even expressed some concerns over Harry's wardrobe, fitting for the weather with the thick leather coat and all, but not all that well fitting.

By the end of the only slightly miserable day, Harry approached Celeritas with the desperate plea that Berkley be assigned permanently as his first lieutenant, and be done with the painful rotation of officers who only belittled him and turned the training into a unbearable torture. Celeritas looked at him steadily for a moment before nodding in agreement.

"Has there been some difficulty?" the old dragon asked slowly.

"Ah, well… nothing I can't handle," Harry answered, awkward and knowing better than to tattle tale. That would not make him any more popular than he already was. Or wasn't. "But with Berkley it will be much easier for everyone, I think."

"Very well. Berkley will be assigned to Horntail as the first lieutenant," Celeritas agreed, and only belatedly Harry realised that if Celeritas said it, then it was already settled – and Harry hadn't even asked the man whether or not he'd like the post.

"Oh, certainly I don't mind," Berkley said when Harry asked him, somewhat timidly and belatedly. "It's a prime post, serving on a first rate like Horntail. And a fire breather at that!" and the whole matter was settled with that. Harry left the selection of the flight crew for now in Berkley's hands, more than willing to trust in the man's judgement like he had trusted in Brasher's, though he was more than glad that the two men Berkley presented him, Thorpe and Cross who would be the second and third lieutenants, seemed to have none of the distain for Harry that the other lieutenants appeared to possess.

"There will still be some rotation," Berkley explained to Harry. "So that our officers here at Loch Laggan can get used to handling a difficulty rigged dragon like Horntail – but this way we can be sure that no other crew will snatch Thorpe and Cross up in the meantime."

It wasn't the exact end of it, though. After the officers around Loch Laggan seemed to realise that there was actually going to be a permanent crew on Horntail and that the post was, half-wit captain or no, one of some importance, they lost some of their nonchalant distaste. What they gained in return, though, wasn't something Harry much cared for. As recently made lieutenants, midwingmen and even some _ensigns_ presented themselves to him with the wish to join the crew permanently – and it wasn't always all that polite, when they did it, talking down to him and about themselves like it was of course perfectly plain that Harry would include them without any hesitation.

One especially cocky ensign that Harry somewhat disliked when he laid eyes on the boy – who was maybe a year or so older than him – had an especially annoying way of going about it. "Ensign Jeremy Ranking, at your service," the elder boy said in tones that made it plain he was no such thing. "I would be most obliged, sir, if you would include me on your crew. I have several merits for the position," he started and trailed on, telling that he was the son of some earl and that his family had a great and noble history of dragon husbandry and as such he would be most happy to provide some alternate views on the matter.

"It would be temporary, of course," Rankin said, with a mild, almost apologetic shake of his head, like the whole thing was already decided and he was the most important officer Harry would ever have, and thus it would be a pain to ever end such an arrangement. "Once I make Lieutenant I imagine I will be taking up my father's and my grandfather's post as the captain of their old dragon."

"Oh?" Harry asked, a little uncertain. Nothing Rankin had said was in any way mean or nasty, not even slightly offensive, but he had a way of talking that reminded Harry, not all that pleasantly, of Professor Snape and Lucius Malfoy – a little bit of Draco Malfoy too, except that particular Malfoy had never managed such polite tones.

"Yes. My grandfather was the one who harnessed Celeritas, you see," the boy said, without any tone or expression of smugness but somehow coming across as _very_ smug. "My father inherited the position from him, as these things happen, but he retired from action when my great uncle died some, um, five years ago, and he had to take up the peerage. Just as well, I imagine, he is getting quite old. As the third son, I am the next in the line, and so the handling of Celeritas falls onto me – though Celeritas has demanded to see me at the rank of lieutenant first, the silly old creature."

Harry, both through Horntail and as himself, had grown to respect the old training master more than a little – as teachers went, Celeritas was one of the best he had ever had, even topping McGonagall on occasion. Celeritas was wise and understanding in other matters as well, and forgave logical mishaps of Harry's and Horntail's ignorance without making as much fuss about them, as the aviators did. To hear someone talk about _handling_ Celeritas, like he was some sort of animal to be tamed, was… irksome.

"I will think about your request," Harry said, with a smile that didn't quite reach the same level of polite indifferent smugness of the other boy. He would not, actually – he would under no circumstances take this… twerp into Horntail's crew.

Other offers were put forward, some politely, some not so politely, and in the end Harry decided to ignore them all. When he asked Berkley, the lieutenant confirmed that it wasn't the usual way people went about these things – though of course it wasn't that usual for the first lieutenant to select the crew, either. "A post on a dragon is won by merit, not by pushing yourself forward and strutting about," the man scoffed at the end of their day's practices. "Normally a captain picks whoever he or she likes, as it tends to suit better for the dragon, and that's the end of it. No one can ply to get into a dragon's crew, not really. As it is, you should remember that if you or Horntail have any objections, waste no time to tell me."

"No objections as of now," Harry assured, stretching and giving the man a thoughtful look. "Berkley… does it bother you that I'm…" he trailed away. He wasn't actually a half-wit, at least he hoped he wasn't. But he was so ignorant about just about everything that that was how it came across. Harry had, on occasion, a hard time figuring out what the people around him were saying – the previous day it had taken him nearly half an hour to try and figure what Berkley had meant, saying that he was "at sixes and sevens" about one manoeuvre.

And it didn't help that the idioms and turns of phrases Harry occasionally used were mostly magic based and thus no one understood him when he said that he was about to throw a cauldron up or that he figure he ought to get a stick for as much use as it would be or that the crew might all run with the pale horses and see how they reflected. He desperately tried not to say anything of the sort, not entirely sure how people here reacted to witches and wizards and magic in general, but sometimes they slipped – and made people stare at him like he was, well. What they already thought he was.

"Well. You're not stupid, I know that much," Berkley answered thoughtfully. "You're not slow either; that adjustment you ordered in the back wing manoeuvre was spot on. Whatever's left is ignorance and misinformation, and that will repair itself in time." He glanced down at Harry and smiled. "Let people talk. We won't be stationed at Loch Laggan forever – it will be straight to Dover with us once our training is done, and by then I doubt it will matter one way or the other."

Harry nodded, feeling some ball of tension inside him easing up, and then looked away and at Horntail who was following how the harness men removed the battle armour they had been using for training that day, to get her used to the weight.

"I wasn't sure before, but I think I might get used to this," Harry mused, plucking at the front of his bottle green coat, nicer than any coat he had ever worn before, even nicer than any of his robes back home. He still had some difficulty about the wardrobe of the period and couldn't tie a neck cloth properly to save his life, though thankfully Aviators didn't need to wear knee breeches and stocking. Soldiers of the period had some fine hats, though, even if aviators rarely wore them.

"I'm sure you will," Berkley said, clapping his shoulder compassionately. "Now, let's see if they're done roasting Horntail's cow yet – and if they've made anything… extra," he said, brightening up and Harry grinned. Berkley seemed to enjoy the chance of snatching a few pieces of properly roasted meat or fish on occasion as much as Harry's ground crew did.

"Lets," the young wizard agreed, and after the last plate of armour, a chain mesh over Horntail's back, had been removed, mostly by her as she was the only one strong enough to do it, the dragon came closer to fetch them for the now daily shore-line excursion.


	7. Part I, Chapter VII

As Horntail's manoeuvre practices in the formation began in earnest, the year changed and the news from the continent turned bleak. For Harry it was all a bit confusing, of course, and he felt a little detached from it all, but still, to hear that the French had not only waged war against the Dutch Republic, but that they were doing it with increasing success was a little frightening. For the wizard who had never been that good at understanding muggle wars, the continent seemed a cacophony of fighting, with the Prussians warring against Poland on one side, with the Russians on the other and of course the French meeting them on the third side.

"Of course, so as long as they concentrate on the continentals, they leave us alone, but it's still damned tough reading," Berkley muttered in one solemn meeting between captains, which out of necessity included Harry's first lieutenant as well, as Harry's advisor.

"It'll give us time to get our formation ready, in any case," Mitchell muttered, with narrowed eyes as he read over the newspaper delivered from Edinburgh, screening through the somewhat uninformative articles. "By the time they start paying attention to us, I want us at the channel and ready to roast any ship they send into breathing distance. And more."

The others seemed to agree heartily, and while Harry wondered what it would be like, a battle between a dragon and a ship, they started talking about manoeuvres that would take advantage of Horntail's fire breathing abilities. He could understand the advantage a fire breathing dragon had over a wooden ship carrying who knew how much gun powder, and it made him a little uneasy – like he was stepping into a wand duel with a muggle.

But he had committed himself to the Aerial Corps and aside from the reservations he had about unfair battles, he was getting better at handling the whole thing. Some of that was thanks to Berkley and some of it could be laid at Harcourt's feet. After having asked for her as one of his runners, she had became something of a shadow for him, following him around and whispering explanations when Harry encountered something he didn't quite get. It wasn't quite the normal mode for a captain to go about, but the officers of Horntail, now that the crew had been more or less selected, along with most of the riflemen with the top men and bell men being left to select, turned a blind eye to it.

Under Berkley's severe glare, the whispers had, finally, stopped completely, and if there were any annoyed looks directed at Harry, their givers were quick to be marked as unsuitable for the crew. The rest Harry assumed Berkley had selected not just for their ability but mostly for their demeanour and manners, and no one among those who were picked permanently gave Harry a hard time. Harry knew they passed by many very gifted officers this way – the riflemen tended to be worst of the lot – but Berkley didn't seem to mind, he only ordered a lot more gunnery practice.

And, aside from the crew, the rest was beyond interesting. As a Quidditch player Harry was used to flying in a group, but the cacophony of a Quidditch match was nothing in comparison to formation flying on a dragon – strict and precise and when performed right, graceful. It was humbling to realise that the rest of the formation had been selected with Horntail's protection in mind – she was the offense and the other six dragons were her defence, her shield from other dragons. It was like his team had five Beaters, all circling the Seeker. It was very… awe-inspiring.

It also made Harry and Horntail eager to meet the match. With so much effort put to their protection and their use, it was up to them to live up to the task. So, when Celeritas ordered fire practice until Horntail's throat felt sore and tongue tasted of ash, she kept at it, with Harry trying to help as much as he could with his vision and hearing, as bad as those were in the air. It was what eventually prompted Harry to make enquiries about having goggles with specially made lenses.

"I need my eyes in the air, but I can't wear these in those winds," he said, holding up his glasses. They were a weakness none of the other aviators had, but which he couldn't escape. "So I need goggles which work just as well for me."

"Well, it's not a problem I've ever heard aviator have," Payne mused, having grown a little warmer to Harry after Harry had remarked how fluid her Hortensia, the purple-grey Xenica, was in the air, in comparison to Horntail who was better at speed than agility. "But I think there is a lens maker in Edinburgh. I am heading there this weekend for a spot of liberty, how about I make some enquiries for you?"

"I'd be very grateful," Harry nodded. He wasn't entirely sure how he would pay for them and even if he could, he suspected that it would take better part of a month to get his prescription goggles, if they could be made, but he could wait – as it was, they were barely a quarter through their training.

Meanwhile the practice and training continued, with the formation flying manoeuvre after manoeuvre, and Horntail ending her days with breathing fire on targets on the lake. Celeritas was determined to get some length to her flame, as well as precision, and if her lung capacity would grow a little to bring her breathing time up to three minutes, it was all for the better. But, after a while it started to get tedious so Harry suggested that, if it wasn't too much trouble, they could spice things up.

"What do you mean?" Celeritas asked, while inspecting the smoking remains of the flag poles on barrels with some satisfaction.

"Well. Not all our targets will be floating in the water, nor will they stay still," Harry answered. "We will have to fight other dragons in the air, too. So it stands to reason that we'd need some airborne target practice." At the old dragon's thoughtful look, Harry shrugged. "I got the idea watching gunnery practice, the way they throw the clay disks for the riflemen to shoot? We could do the same for Horntail – have other dragons dropping or throwing barrels or maybe sacks of something or logs, over the lake and having her try and flame them in the air." He was rather curious to see how good her aim would be in that sort of situation – as it was, she rarely missed a floating target.

"Hm. Yes, that would work very well," Celeritas said thoughtfully. "Very well, I will see what can be done about arraigning such a practice. It should give some exercise to some other dragons here as well."

It became something of an evening's entertainment after that. The smaller dragons of the covert, the Greylings and Winchesters mostly, carried wooden targets into the air, large logs mostly, and dropped them at considerable heights while Horntail lunged after them. The bigger dragons on other hand threw the targets into the air from the shore, often with their tails, and Horntail was to get them to catch on fire before they touched the nearly frozen surface of the lake. And all the while, men and dragons on the shoreline cheered enthusiastically, like it was a spectator sport set up just for their pleasure.

Not that Harry minded – Horntail was having the time of her life, leaping after the targets. It felt almost like Quidditch, going after a snitch, even if she was supposed to burn the snitch up rather than to merely catch it.

Some time passed by like this, before Berkley approached him about the goggles Harry had ordered. "Payne asked about and there is a lens maker who would be willing to make them," the man said. "But he needs to check your eyesight to do it. If you'd like, we can apply for liberty for a day or so to visit Edinburgh so that he can get the whole matter settled."

"Yes, of course, but… I don't know how I'd pay for it," Harry answered, to which Berkley gave him a look of astonishment.

"Captain, you've been getting a salary since you were enlisted," the man said slowly. "You do know that?"

"Um," Harry answered, embarrassed. He hadn't really thought that he would – his situation being so weird. And he was fourteen too, younger than any other captain. It seemed natural that he just worked and that was it. "Well," he said awkwardly as he realised that, being enlisted in the military, it did make some sense that he'd be paid. "If I have, then I have no idea where it's been going to."

He and Berkley applied for their short leaves and had them granted – Quantuvis had some problem with his harness and it took the better part of the day to get sorted, so most of the formation had liberty for the day. Before they went, with one of the Winchesters waiting to carry them, Berkley did something fairly novel and checked Harry's clothing over – even went as far as to tie his neck cloth for him.

"We don't much care for this nonsense," the lieutenant said, while checking that it was tied on properly. "Starched clothing and whatnot. But it's always better that we don't make a spectacle of ourselves when in public, as tedious as it is. The reputation of aviators is bad enough as it is."

Harry agreed, easing a finger under the neck cloth and loosening it a little. The formality of their clothing was, for him, still a bit too much. Just the coat Aviators wore was as fancy as any dress robe Harry had ever seen, not to mention about the hats as nice looking as they were. The breeches too, nothing like the trousers of the future when you could just pull them on and be done with it.

"I didn't realise aviators had a bad reputation," Harry mused, while Berkley checked the lapels of his coat.

"Yes, well, common polite society is full of stiff necked scrubs," Berkley snorted. "Who usually consider aviators the most outrageous thing about. There, you look presentable enough. Let's go."

They went. Harry, who had gotten used to flying on Horntail now and thought he could handle just about any wind and sleet and rain on a dragon's back, found to his surprise that Horntail had little on a Winchester – whose speed was incredible and easy, leaving Loch Laggan behind in couple of strong wing beats and then gliding over the hills and lakes at tremendous swiftness. Harry had to dig out the goggles he had brought with him as a sample and pull them on eventually, to keep his eyes from growing dry.

Meanwhile, Horntail stretched after the spot of stamina exercise Celeritas still had her doing – partially to increase her endurance, and to make sure that the muscle she was gaining was going into the right places. Like Keynes had suspected, on a regular diet Horntail had put on nearly two tons more weight and at twenty two was among the largest dragons in Britain. The Regal Coppers were still bigger, obviously as the smallest of them still had some eight tons on her, and of course Chequered Nettles reached twenty two tons if fed properly, but it was still a great achievement.

"The more I look at you, the more I think you’re a Middle Eastern breed," Keynes, who measured her weekly, mused while looking her over. "The higher body temperature, the spines… you're too short to be derived from a Kazilisk, which are among the longest of dragons, but there are some similarities. Not enough to presume Kazilisk ancestry, however, your fire breathing works more like that of Flecha-del-Fuegos, than that of Kazilisks…."

Whichever way it was, Horntail didn't much care and the fact that the people of the covert paid so much attention to try and figure out what her ancestry was and where she came from was making her a little uneasy. It wasn't like she had roots anywhere in this world, and if there were Hungarian Horntails here, they probably weren't called that, being as what she knew as Hungary was currently part of the Ottoman Empire. But so long as they wouldn't try and ship her to her country of supposed origins – which they wouldn't, she knew that much from their desperate need for a fire breather – she was willing to let them continue their studies.

Today, considering that Harry would be spending the majority of the day on his trip to Edinburgh, it would be only studies unless she busied herself with something. There was nothing wrong with Keynes, but Horntail was getting tired of being measured all the time – it wasn't like the measurements changed much. As it was all she seemed to do was practice, eat, sleep and get measured, and as many interesting things as Harry got to do outside training, there was very little entertainment for her. And boredom was still boredom even when one body was having a good time.

After giving a glance towards the castle, where she could see some aviators talking, she turned to the workshops and stables, where the work men tended to the harness and other things. Shaking the softly falling snow from her wings, she got up and headed for the stables, glancing at the sides and trying to see if she could find something to entertain herself with.

"Well then, Horntail, what are you on about now?" Brasher asked, coming forward from the stables with some harness straps thrown over his shoulder, cleaning his hands on his apron. "Are you hungry? It's not time for your roast yet, but if you want something, we could start working on it a little earlier…" he trailed away, and she shook her head, tilting it and considering.

What she would've liked was to play Quidditch. The more flying she did, the more Harry missed the game, the chase after the Snitch and the roar of the play going around them, the chasers dashing after the Quaffle and the beaters trying to incapacitate the opposing team…. Training was interesting and more than a little awesome, but it got so boring to fly in circles all the time. She wanted to do some more… exciting flying.

Carefully she reached for the stack of barrels brought in just to be her targets and took one of them, heavily fortified to stand the rigors of her training without being destroyed immediately, into her talons, turning to Brasher and giving him what she hoped would come out as pleading look. "Hrr?" she asked, knowing that trying to verbalise further wouldn't do much good.

"Well," Brasher said, scratching the side of his head. "I suppose it's alright, for you to have to one. What you're going to do with it, I'm sure I don't know."

Giving the ground crew master a thankful growl, Horntail took the barrel into her talons and then hurried away, to the lake where she could begin throwing it and catching it without the fear of having it fall on someone's head.

Meanwhile Harry's and Berkley's journey, which took barely three hours if even that despite the distance, was finished and they landed at the Edinburgh covert, where the captain of the Winchester made his apologies and then headed off to hand off parcels. Berkley and Harry didn't linger after that, and once the lieutenant had waved in greeting to some other Aviators hanging about the barracks yard, they headed off to the town.

Harry wasn't sure what he had imagined it to be like, but Edinburgh surprised him. Both with its old, grand buildings that weren't that different from those he might've seen in the future – and also with the lack of things he considered familiar. Of course in this time there were no cars, no motorcycles, no streets wide enough for several lanes and no street lamps, no asphalt. Instead there were cobble stones and some lamps which had to be manually lit in the evening – and carts and horses and carriages and the stench that came from having horses about.

It turned out that Harry had an account with a bank in Edinburgh, settled for him by the Admiralty, and that his salary was being paid into it – just like about every other aviator’s in Scotland. The bankers were a bit suspicious about Harry at first, peering at the captain's double bars at his shoulder as if suspecting them to be fake, but Berkley settled the whole thing in his easy and slightly too loud manner.

"It seems very little," Harry murmured to himself, after being told how much money he had. His Gringotts vault, he thought somewhat awkwardly, was full of gold, enough for a person to lay on it and never touch anything but gold. His captain's salary on the other hand could be fit into the palms of his hands – with space left over.

"You've only been in service for so long, and have seen no action," Berkley laughed, patting his shoulder. "Give it time, capture a few dragons, roast some ships, and it'll start to show."

After visiting the bank they went to see the lens maker, who was a bit uneasy about having two aviators in his store, but fully willing to take Harry's money. The check up he performed to test Harry's eyesight was… simple. Nothing like the use of difficult machines in the future, to test which sort of lens worked the best. Instead, Harry was sat in a corner and told to name the letters he saw on a board on the other side of the room. But, if it got him goggles with a prescription, he was more than satisfied with it.

"Well," the lens maker said, peering at the goggles Harry presented to him. "I think it can be done, yes. The best way to go about it would be to simply replace the lenses in these particular goggles – though of course, such adjustments are not easy," he added, giving Harry a sidelong look.

"What's the difficulty about it? Just make the lenses fit, and screw them on, just like any other glass," Berkley said, showing how the cap of the goggles could be taken on and off. "We replace the glass on our goggles like this all the time! Shouldn't be too difficult."

The lens maker gave a somewhat stiff smile at that, before naming his price. Berkley snorted, and named his price in return. After ten minutes, they met somewhere in between and shook hands grimly before the lens maker took Harry's goggles away. "The lenses should be ready in two weeks or so," he said. "I presume I'm to send them to the covert when they are done?"

"To the Loch Laggan Covert," Harry said, while awkwardly writing the cheque to pay for the work. "Thank you," he added, while handing it over.

The lens maker gave him a blatantly faked smile, and nearly shooed them out of his shop. Berkley led Harry out, looking like he was in a good mood despite the haggling with the lens maker. "We have some hours worth of time left, before the courier flies back," the man said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "How about we take a look around? You've never been in Edinburgh, right?"

"I've… never been anywhere, really," Harry answered, with actual honesty. Even in his former world, the furthest he had gone was to London and Hogsmeade, and that was it.

"Well then, no time like the present to take a look," Berkley said, grinning, and they went walking down the streets of Edinburgh, scandalising passers-by judging by the looks thrown in their direction, but being mostly ignored by them. After the initial nervousness, Harry grew curious and while Berkley watched he peeked into the windows of the shops they passed by and eyed their products curiously. From the perspective of a muggle raised, it was all dated and on occasion primitive. From a wizard's perspective, it was all the pinnacle of invention and more.

While Harry wondered if and when pocket watches would be invented, Horntail had thrown herself at her inventive Quidditch practice with vigour. It wasn't quite the same as having a snitch dashing about and flying away from her, but if she threw the barrel wildly, it wasn't too bad, to dash after it and catch it barely in time. She was getting the hang of doing it so that she couldn't quite predict the outcome beforehand, when the sound of wings near by caught her attention.

"Hello," one of the younger dragons of the covert, a Malachite Reaper, said shyly, while flying at her side. "Can I try too?"

Horntail considered it and then nodded, before remembering the barrel and diving after it, catching it just in time to prevent it from crashing onto the ice of the lake. Angling back up, sped by the speed of her dive, she made her way up to the side of the Malachite Reaper – and then threw the barrel at the younger male dragon.

He fumbled it and it fell, but only for a while. Snapping his wings together, the Reaper dived and caught the barrel somewhat clumsily but securely to his talons, before coming up again, with eyes wide with excitement and pupils mere pinpricks. Without saying anything, he threw the barrel at her in turn.

It turned into a somewhat clumsy session of playing catch – and after another younger dragon came up as well, a Yellow Reaper – Horntail started to wonder. If dragons liked to play catch, and these two were certainly having fun after they figured the trick of catching, then… would it be too far off, to teach them to play Quidditch? There would be no Snitches and no Bludgers obviously, but tossing a Quaffle about in the air, trying to score goals….

In Edinburgh, Harry stopped to consider it too, wondering how he could teach dragons the rules of Quidditch. "Hey, Berkley?" he asked, wondering how much money he had and how expensive things were in this time. At the lens maker he had already been started to realise that money here wasn't quite what he thought it was – nor did it have the same worth. "Do you think there’s any way I could buy a blackboard?"

"A what now?" Berkley asked, giving him a blank look.

"A blackboard. You write things into it with chalk?" Harry asked, and the man only continued to stare at him in incomprehension. Blinking, the wizard realised that blackboards probably haven't been invented yet – and wasn't that a strange thing to realise? It explained some things about the covert, though, like how there were no blackboards in the classrooms and why the manoeuvres all were written somewhat wastefully onto paper only to be discarded later.

"Okay, hm…" Harry frowned. "I'd like to buy a big black slate of stone and some chalk." People did know what chalk was, right, it didn't need to be invented, right?

Berkley gave him a confused but considering look and thought about it. "Well, I think there are some stone masons here in Edinburgh. I suppose we could ask about, there's no hurry to head back yet."

 

* * *

 

The slates of stone, which ended up being cheaper than the goggles, and the chalk he had gotten almost free, were sent to Loch Laggan just a week after Harry's and Berkley's visit to Edinburgh. The stone was a bit rougher than Harry would've preferred, and smaller, but he had been sent a good four slates and while the other aviators watched with bafflement, he considered them before going to talk with his ground crew.

A day or so later, the slates of stones were arranged into a wooden frame, and a firm stand was made for the final result and thus Harry's blackboard was ready. With Brasher's help he even managed to cut the raw chalk into neat pieces – and when he started to test them on the rough board, the looks of confusion and bafflement of his crew and officers cleared.

"But whatever do you intend to do with it?" Berkley asked, while Harry's crew lined to test their hand with the chalk – the board was already full of their signatures and small sketches, someone had even drawn a small caricature dragon in the corner.

"I wanted to see if I could teach the dragons to play a game," Harry answered. After that though, he wasn't sure. Eventually they'd be stationed out of Loch Laggan, and he doubted that he could take the board with him, even in pieces – the stone was too fragile, and had already chipped here and there while being delivered. "After that I guess it could be put into one of the classrooms and then teachers can use it. Should be easier that way." Shrugging his shoulders, he turned to Horntail who was watching the proceedings from close by, peering at the newly made blackboard and trying to see what was being written. The text ought to be bigger for a dragon to be able to read it, she confirmed, but the blackboard was big enough for demonstration.

"Oh, this is a marvellous contraption!" Thorpe, Harry's and Horntail's second lieutenant, said after realising how easily the chalk came off the board. "This will be ever so useful when going through manoeuvre changes and re-fitting a formation! Captain, where ever did you get the idea for this? What do you call this?"

"Blackboard," Harry answered with a somewhat rueful shrug. "And…" he couldn't very well say that they had been around since long before he had been born since they obviously hadn't, not here. "I suppose it just came to me. I wanted a way to show something to dragons without having to resort into gigantic pieces of paper; this seemed handier."

"I should say," Thorpe answered, and much to the dismay of rest of Horntail's crew, begun quickly wiping the entire board clear with his slightly moistened – and completely soiled – handkerchief. Then he begun hurriedly to sketch a formation manoeuvre that had given the crew some troubles earlier – while the rifleman had taken a shot at one particular curve, it had been a small miracle they had missed Horntail's wing. "Okay, here, see?" he pointed, motioning the new head of the riflemen, Smithy, closer. "I was thinking that it would be easier to aim at the fifth wing beat, and shoot at the sixth instead of the eight – that way you will be able to fire before the turn imbalances everyone."

"Oh," Smithy answered, leaning in to take a look. "Hmm… yes, perhaps…" and then he was motioning the riflemen closer, to point this out to them as well, while Thorpe left him with the chalk and walked closer to Harry.

"Say, Captain," the man said, eyes shining. "I don't suppose you might have considered the… business potential of this?"

"What?" Harry asked, in utter bafflement.

"Well, see, my father, he's a merchant and he sells the wares of some private inventors and companies and suchlike. Well, most of them are novelty trinkets with little use, but that's beside the point," Thorpe said, and cast a look at the blackboard. "This… blackboard of yours? I do believe that it would make a great product."

"Oh," Harry answered, a little faintly, while Berkley snorted.

"I think that's taking the excitement of a new thing a little too far, Thorpe," Harry's first lieutenant said, amused.

"I don't think I am. I worked in that shop for the better part of my childhood," Thorpe answered, still eyeing the blackboard like he was trying to cast a proper price to it. "And our correspondence is frequent enough for me to remember what it was like. I should say I have some inclination to know what would and what would not sell and this I do believe would." He turned his eyes sharply to Harry. "Captain, with your permission I’ll tell my father about this invention of yours."

"And then your father gets all the profit for inventing the thing, gets a patent and all, and our Captain sees not a single penny of the haul?" Berkley asked, his eyes sharpening. After seeing so many aviators abuse Harry with insults or indifference, he had gotten a keen sense for it, Harry supposed somewhat embarrassedly while looking away and trying not to flush.

"Well…" Thorpe trailed away awkwardly and then smiled. "I'm sure a suitable percentage of the proceeds could be arranged?" he said hopefully, and Berkley's eyes narrowed a little dangerously. Thorpe sighed, slumping a little and then shaking his head. "I suppose we will have to bring solicitors into it to settle the proper way of going about it," he muttered.

"Good," Berkley nodded with sharp, satisfied smile. "I will be writing my own solicitors in London on behalf of the Captain, we'll leave them and your father's solicitors to settle the matter," he said, and nodded again, before turning to the men – who had once more dissolved into enthusiasm and were sketching random images onto the board, and their names, and sentences they particularly liked. "Okay, that's enough. You'll have more time to play with the Captain's new toy later."

As Berkley ushered the men, along with again thoughtful Thorpe, away, Harry looked after them a little awkwardly. He hadn't even though that – that, seeing that the blackboard hadn't been invented yet, that _he_ could end up being it's supposed inventor, having _come up_ with the idea a little too early. Nor had he thought that it could be profited from – though that idea, as much as it felt like stealing, was a little interesting. He and Horntail didn't have much – the pay of a captain wasn't that luxurious – and a little bit of more… well, he didn't really need huge amounts of money, but he had gotten used to the security of having a full bank vault to fall back to.

And maybe it wasn't stealing, per say, when no one had invented the thing yet, right? And who knew how many years it would take before they would? If the blackboard was already invented then they wouldn't, and really, no one could call that stealing. If anything, it was a good idea – he was advancing education everywhere they would take the boards into use! That was as good a reason as any.

Scratching his temple, Harry eyed Horntail who was now peering at the texts and drawings sketched onto the board. The Malachite Reaper who had been playing with her had edged a little closer to her, and was basking in the heat Horntail's body put out even in the frosty winter air – and the yellow reaper wasn't too far either, talking with her captain excitedly about something.

Shaking his head, Harry decided to put the blackboard to the use he had bought it for, and after cleaning the board with his sleeve, he began sketching a sort of Quidditch field into it. It would have no actual lines and no goals – fifty foot iron poles with huge rings at the end wouldn't be that easy to come by in these times – and instead he used lines at the end of the field to signify the _goals_.

"Hey," Harry said, beckoning to the Malachite Reaper. "You were playing with Horntail today, right? Would you like to learn a game she likes?"

 

* * *

 

The simplified game of Quidditch became very nearly an instant success. After rules had been determined – no fire breathing or anything of the like, no doing bodily harm, and so forth – Horntail and the Malachite Reaper, Lucretius, spent one evening working themselves breathless in the race for the barrel and to score goals, until the other dragons got interested as well. The barrel was broken in a tussle between Lucretius and a Pennipes, and after another had been sacrificed to the cause, Brasher promised that he'd see what could be done, to make a proper ball that dragons could handle without the risk of turning it into splinters.

"This is absurd," Akerman, the captain of one of the two Yellow Reapers of Horntail's formation muttered while the entire formation watched their dragons go at it over the lake. "Go, Oriundus, go!" Akerman then roared suddenly, when his dragon caught the _ball_ , and then, "Damn it!"

"Hah!" Simmons answered, as Pennipes, being a much quicker and agile Anglewing, stole the ball.

"Oh, I just hope they don't get too excited and trounce each other up too badly," Lane muttered, shaking his head. His dragon, Profundus, was hovering by one of the goals a little uneasily, serving as Keeper for one of the teams. "The last thing we need at this point is one of them to break a wing in a tussle for the ball."

"They know better than to do that, I'm sure," Mitchell muttered, and slapped his dragon's side. "Oh, stop moaning, Quantuvis. If would hardly be fair for the opposite team to have you in, when Horntail isn't either. Let her catch her breath, and you can get onto the field too."

"I don't see why I cannot go there anyway," the big Parnassian muttered – but the rules had gone through some changes, and now a team could only have heavyweight dragons in it, if the other team did as well, and as Horntail and Quantuvis were the only heavier dragons currently at the covert, they could only play at the same time and against each other – both usually employed at Keeper positions, since it was harder to get through a heavyweight than a smaller middleweight.

Harry, heartened by the success of his Quidditch experiment and eagerly waiting for Horntail to catch her breath so that she could go back there again, grinned to himself. He couldn't help but wonder what the people back on the other world would've thought – what Ron would've thought, seeing this. He had once had nightmares of Quidditch players riding on dragons, but to see dragons playing Quidditch was really something else. He couldn't wait for Brasher and the crew to finish the ball so that the dragons could play in earnest – the barrels were really a bit too fragile for the game, and it was only a matter of time before someone's talons would shatter this one.

"Hmm," Celeritas, who was watching as well from the ground, hummed, his tail flicking thoughtfully from side to side. "It is an interesting game, to be sure," he mused. "And as exercise of team dynamics go, it has some merit. But whoever would have thought such a thing, dragons playing in such a manner…."

"Give it a hundred years or so and it will be the most famous sport in the world," Harry muttered, smothering the urge to grin again.

The goggles Harry had ordered were delivered eventually, and they definitely eased some of the difficulty of training – he had been able to see before, obviously, through Horntail's eyes, but it was something entirely different, to have two sets of eyes in the air. He could have Horntail looking ahead and around and then look back as Harry, and so he literally ended with eyes in the back of his and her head. And after months of getting used to it, the double vision wasn't even that distracting anymore, and he didn't feel nauseous even at the more difficult turns Celeritas had them perform. It also helped his fencing practice – which Mr. Langley had moved onto Horntail's back, seeing that it was where Harry would be doing most of his fencing.

Not that having proper eyesight saved him from whacked shins and bruised upper arms and sides – not to mention about the other aches and bruises. If it was hard to fence on the ground, it was nothing in comparison to fencing on board a dragon going some thirty miles per hour, with wind gushing at all sides, the surface between his feet moving, and Horntail doing odd turns every now and then. And even when he saw the turns coming and was prepared for them, it was still hard, fighting against the forces of nature and trying to stop himself from being completely trounced by Langley.

"Better," the instructor said, when Harry more accidentally than intentionally poked him to the side with his practice sword. "But not good enough." And then Harry was forced to pay for his success with several more bruises.

Berkley, who eventually helped him to the baths, laughed at the bruises littering Harry's torso and limbs. "He's a mean old bastard, that Langley, but he knows his work," the lieutenant said, after Harry complained a little. "And I'd prefer to get a thousand bruises from him in the process of my training, than one successful stab from a Frenchman."

"I suppose," Harry sighed, rubbing his chest gingerly, where purple and blue marks littered it. He had to admit that he was getting a bit better, though – there weren't nearly as many of them as there had been in the beginning on his training. Not to mention the fact that he was gaining some muscle definition, though whether that was because of fencing or because of the way Celeritas had him clamber all about Horntail's harness all the time to get him as efficient with it as possible, he wasn't sure. Either way, he was grateful – he had been something of a toothpick all his life, and to find that he had _biceps_ was a pretty novel discovery.

They stopped by the pools for a moment before heading to the steam room where fourteen year old Langford James sat by his Greyling egg. It was not all that surprising, as he spent most of his time there, waiting on the egg. He was on occasion joined by another captain to be – Damian Coel, who was waiting on a Yellow Reaper egg, and had been for a couple of weeks now – though for the most part he sat in the baths by himself, seeing that he was the only person in the covert who spent some six hours at the baths every day.

"It's hardened!" the boy enthused at the sight of them, his hand resting on the small egg. "It hardened this morning – it will hatch soon!"

"Oh, that's marvellous news! Good on you, James," Berkley congratulated the boy, who beamed happily at him. "Have you thought of a name yet?"

"Yes, yes, I have two picked out," the boy said, nodding. Most captains, Harry had realised, picked out the names before hand, but never said them out loud until it was time to name the hatchling – something about it being bad luck to say it out loud. "I can't wait! Did you know, graylings mature the quickest of all dragons? I could be flying the courier routes in a couple of months!"

Berkley laughed good naturedly, while Harry stepped closer curiously, wondering. "Do you mind if I…?" he asked, making a motion at the egg, and James nodded enthusiastically. Harry laid his hand on the eggshell tenderly, and found that it felt rather like a chicken egg, even if a little rough. If a chicken egg had been some seven times bigger than they usually were.

"What was Horntail's egg like?" James asked curiously. "It must have been big.

"I don't…" Harry frowned, trailing away. He had never seen Horntail's egg, obviously, but he had seen her clutch even if only momentarily. Some dozen bronze eggs there had been in that nest in the First Task arena, and among the Golden Egg Harry had been meant to catch.

Thoughtful, Harry ran his eyes over the shelves of the other eggs. The biggest eggs – like the brand new Parnassian egg which had been delivered just a month or so ago and was still waiting for the Admiralty to decide it's future captain – were enormous, big enough to reach his waist, and Regal Copper eggs were so big that they couldn't be housed in the niches of the steam lodge, but had to be made their own, special cots in the room. Horntail's eggs, though, they had been about the size of the lightweight Pascal Blue eggs, which were still enormous, but small enough to be carried in a person's arms.

Shaking his head, Harry smiled to James a little awkwardly before backing away to sit on the other side of the room. Berkley, glancing at him, seemed to sense his mood and instead of joining him sat by James, to talk about his plans for the Greyling's training.

When Harry had learned, in the studies of dragon anatomy, breeding and whatnot, that dragons here usually only laid one egg – two, if they were extremely lucky - he had been a bit confused. It explained why there were so few eggs in the steam room, but still… Horntail had laid at least a dozen or so, maybe more. They were smaller than a dragon of her weight would've carried in this world, but there had been _so many_ of them.

That, now that Harry thought about it, was a little worrisome.

There was also the fact that dragons didn't mate and then produce an egg. No, the female carried the egg, usually feeling or somehow sensing it there, and then the dragon mated to fertilize it – and if it wasn't, then even if it was laid and brooded on, it never hatched, obviously. He and Horntail, who was currently busy trying to block Pennipes from scoring a goal on the lake, had been worried about the whole breeding thing since it had been first mentioned – they still were, because people still were looking forward to her potential eggs, future fire-breathers. You couldn't force a dragon to mate, especially not one like Horntail who could scorch any dragon that came too close, and yet….

What would happen, if she got heavy with eggs and then laid some dozen of them? Even if they were unfertilized, and would never hatch anything, it would catch the attention of the aviators. Fire-breathers like her were so desperately wanted – and in a single generation Horntail could lift Britain from having a weak aerial force, to having one of some serious fire power. It might make the aviators – and the Admiralty – reconsider the whole forcing a dragon to mate thing.

And yet, that wasn't even the only thing to consider. Horntail was only sentient, because she was Harry. Back in Harry's own world, dragons weren't like they were here, they didn't speak human tongues and take captains and carry crews. No, they were vicious and dangerous and could only be handled by dozens of wizards, if even them. If Horntail would, somehow, bear fertilized eggs… what if they were like that? Vicious fire breathing monsters, instead of the intelligent and often shockingly gentle creatures people here expected?

All the more reason to never ever consent to draconic mating. Even if the mere thought hadn't been so very… weird.

Shuddering slightly despite the damp heat of the room, Harry leaned back against the wall, while outside in the cold winter lake, Horntail snarled victoriously, having managed to take the ball – barrel – from Pennipes, and pass it on to one of her own teammates. He relaxed a little, as the others on Horntail’s team called in triumph and then dashed after the barrel she threw to Hortensia.

Dragons playing Quidditch, he thought and smiled. That, and absolutely incredible, luxurious steam baths, where a dragon would hatch some day soon. It was too good a day to worry about things like breeding.


	8. Part I, Chapter VIII

As winter started to turn into spring, the news from the continent grew grim. The Dutch had been defeated after a long string of cities falling into French hands and their own people rallying in support of the French under the name of Batavian Revolution and, eventually, Netherlands had signed a treaty with the French. That, sad enough as it was, was only the herald of more as following it Prussia, one of the greatest hopes of France's defeat, also signed a peace treaty with them.

"Damned cowards," was Berkley's judgement of the whole matter, when the news reached Scotland, though he didn't seem as much angry as he seemed understanding – as did the other captains of Horntail's formation, who brooded over the news with frowns and thin lips.

"With the French no longer preoccupied with the Dutch, do you think they will turn their attention to us next?" Lane mused, peering at the newspaper they were passing between them.

"I doubt it, not after last June – he would have to cross the channel and our Navy would give him a run for their money make no mistake," Payne muttered, swirling a bit of wine in a glass. "I should think they will be concentrating more on Spain now."

"They ought to be concentrating onto their own backyard," Mitchell snorted. "Aren't those fellows in Vendée still at arms?"

"For all the good that has done them," Payne answered, snorting in return and frowning.

The news from the continent was the popular topic discussion among the dragons too, but in a wholly different light. "Maybe there will be some battles now," Pennipes mused, stretching her wings in and out with her eyes shining. "It has been a while."

"I should like to see how we would do against Flamme de Gloire," Quantuvis agreed with a thoughtful hum. "Or Fleur de Nuit. Our Horntail ought to be the very best thing that happened to us, concerning those damned night-worms. One gust of flames and she'll have them blinded and screeching in pain."

Horntail, now used to being included and yet not in the discussions among the formation dragon, hummed softly in answer, but offered no attempt of commenting – despite her and Harry's tries, the other dragons hadn't learned to understand the way she spoke, and in the end they had all fell back to having her contribute only by agreeing or disagreeing. But, at least they didn't expel her from their discussions, and she could lie in their circle comfortably, listening.

It surprised no one when, a few days later, the Admiralty finally decided that the Horntail formation was fit enough for work. "With the summer at our doorsteps and the French no longer in pitched battles at all the directions of the wind, the Admiralty feels that the channel ought to have some extra protection," Celeritas informed them. "They want our only fire breather where she can do some good. You can finish your training at Dover Covert, though as it is we have done most of what we can. You need to figure out the rest yourselves."

"Yes, sir," the captains, Harry among them, agreed in unison.

"Good. You will leave tomorrow. Admiral Lenton will receive you at the covert, and give you your next orders," Celeritas said, and gave each of them a look in turn before nodding in satisfaction. "Dismissed."

Together they turned, Harry following a few steps behind like was his habit now, thinking about his officers and crew while the others talked about how long the flight would take and which route they would take. Horntail's crew was more or less set now, with the flight crew, the topmen, bellmen, riflemen and ground crew all settled upon, as well as the lookouts and the three runners. He didn't think they were missing much of anything – the harnesses were all finished and had been for months now, and the crew had gotten used to fitting them around her spines and could do it now with no more time than the other crews could harness their dragons.

It still _felt_ like they were missing something.

"Captain Potter?" Mitchell asked, and looking up Harry realised that the other captains had headed off, to talk to their crew. "A word with you, if you don't mind."

"Of course, Captain," Harry nodded, and they moved a little further to the side and away from the awakening hassle of four dragon crews starting to check their dragons and get ready to move. Mitchell said nothing at first, just looked over the covert grounds before turning to look at Harry, with an equally serious look.

"You and Horntail have gone through the training admirably, no one can deny that, and despite the rumours at the start… no one can deny that both you and your beast are intelligent enough to manage," Mitchell started. "But there are some… irregularities."

"Um… sir?" Harry asked nervously, his stomach dropping a little. Mitchell couldn't have noticed that he and Horntail shared a single mind, right? How could've he noticed? "What sort of irregularities?"

"Well… I would never go as far as to judge a captain's and a dragon's relationship, but you and Horntail…" Mitchell started and then hesitated, looking uncomfortable. He turned his eyes back towards the covert grounds, and Harry followed his gaze. Payne was joking around with Hortensia, scratching the Xenica's chin, while little further away Akerman was slapping Oriundus' side affectionately, to get the dragon to move.

Little further away, young James with his Greyling, Volatilus – or Volly, being how the dragon himself pronounced his name – were resting on the warm courtyard, tired and lazy after a day's practice. Volly was lying lazily on his side while his captain lay stretched on top of him, and they both looked insufferably comfortable and idle.

"You and Horntail are… casual in each other's presence. Often times you seem actually a little… indifferent to each other," Mitchell continued awkwardly, and with a slight, mental jerk Harry realised what he meant. "I do not belittle your bond, you obviously trust each other immensely, and no wonder, considering you are the only one who understands her, but…."

Harry folded his arms, while in the courtyard Horntail turned her attention to Profundus, who was affectionately nudging at Lane's shoulder with his snout. Harry and Horntail were nothing like that – aside from the one time Harry had woken up with the urge to hug himself, but that hadn't happened again, mostly thanks to the fact that no one had made any move to try and replace Horntail's captain. Aside from that one time that no one probably even remembered, they weren't affectionate – and why should they be? And _how_ could they be without it being utterly narcissistic?

As it was, Harry was having an awkward time trying to pretend to be having discussions with Horntail – it was like talking to a mirror, albeit one that showed a different reflection. Even understanding the need, he was always left feeling silly and awkward.

Turning his eyes to Mitchell, Harry raised his eyebrows. "Is it bad?" he asked.

"No, no. People and dragons are different, and if it works for you two as it plainly does…" Mitchell shrugged. "You obviously don't neglect Horntail – you've gone to extreme lengths to abide by her needs. I've never even heard of a dragon with trauma bad enough that they can't consume raw meat, and yet you simply figured a way to go around it. Not to mention the blackboard and the aerial ball you taught to other dragons, just to keep her entertained. However…."

The man hesitated again and then sighed. "There is a small chance that people might… see it in a bad sort of light. It happens every now and again, that a captain truly does neglect and often times even abuse their beast. That is not how it is with you and Horntail, obviously, but… at a glance, it might seem like that."

"Okay," Harry nodded, turning and looking over Horntail with a critical eye. He didn't feel like he was neglecting his other body. Her harness was impeccable, and he kept her clean as well as he could. It was a bit hard most times, especially back when the lake had been frozen over, but thanks to the fact that she didn't end up bloody all over after every meal, it wasn't all that difficult either. But maybe he ought to start cleaning her the way other captains did after their beast's meals? It seemed a bit tedious though, rubbing a dragon down with rags. Maybe a brush or something – like the street brooms of the future, the sort he had been forced to use so many times by Uncle Vernon while cleaning the driveway and the garage…. With that sort of thing, washing a dragon of Horntail's side wouldn't be so hard….

"Should I make an effort?" Harry asked thoughtfully. He doubted he could force himself to speak sweet nothings to Horntail, that would be just ridiculous. But maybe more time spent sitting on her arm, and occasional nap on her back… and the washing, if he managed a way to make the brush-broom thing.

"If you'd like, but what I intended to say is that… Dover covert is the largest in Britain and her colonies," Mitchell started. "And there are plenty of aviators and dragons coming and going. Should any of them make any noise of their grievances…. Well, there will be plenty of fellows jealous as anything at you, for harnessing a prime beast like Horntail, and some of them might latch onto whatever flaws in your handling of her that they might perceive."

"Ah, that," Harry said, and shrugged his shoulders. "I handled being called a half-wit. I can handle a little more dirt, thrown my way," he said. "It's not like I can be easily replaced as Horntail's captain."

Mitchell eyed him for a moment and the nodded, satisfied. "Good," he said, relaxing his stiff stance a little and patting Harry's shoulder. "Let's go and get ready. I want us on wing first light tomorrow," the elder captain said.

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed.

 

* * *

 

Leaving Loch Laggan proved to be not as troublesome as Harry had assumed. He had made very few friends and acquaintances in the place, and just about all of those were on his dragon crew, so there was little to worry about – and though he would, as Horntail, miss the evening Quidditch matches, nothing said that those couldn't be arranged at Dover too. Surely there would be dragons there, who liked to play.

"Maybe, once we get to Dover, we can take a quick jump to London on some point," Thorpe said, as they rigged Horntail for the long flight the following morning. "I'd like to show you my father's shop, Captain. He's been telling me that the blackboards are now selling at a rate he can't quite match – he's thinking of expanding his store, buying a workshop, that sort of thing."

"That's good to hear," Harry answered, while peering around. He couldn't see Brasher anywhere, and being the ground crew master, the man really ought to have been there. "Harcourt?" he called to one of the three runners, hovering near someone who had been securing some of the bags that had been already thrown into Horntail's belly netting. "Go and see if you can find Brasher, would you?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, and dashed to look. She returned some five minutes later, after the crew were already done rigging the flight tents up and below, where crew would be seated for the most of the flight, protected from the wind. "Brasher is at the shore, Captain," she said, a little breathless from running. "He and Jackson are taking down the fire pit – and packing the spit to go."

"Oh, right. Thank you, Harcourt," Harry said and felt a little embarrassed. He had gotten so used to have Horntail fed roasted meat every day that he had forgotten that it wasn't the actual mode of dragon feeding and that there was no reason to expect that Horntail would be easily fed in same manner in Dover. He made a mental note to thank the ground crew master, before turning to Berkley who was inspecting the process of the harnessing.

"We're about ready to go, Captain – all the packages have been loaded at any rate," the thickset man said. "It's a bit heavier right now, seeing that we have to carry also the light duty and the battle harnesses with us to Dover, but I'm sure she can handle it."

"She can," Harry nodded, and with the last carabiner latched on, the ground crew climbed down from Horntail's back, so that she could try and test the harness. Used to it by now, Horntail stood up and beat her wings and shook her shoulders, shaking herself while Harry looked over her critically and then nodded, satisfied. "All lies well," he said, having Horntail nod in agreement – an unusual way of going about it, as it was usually the dragon who said it, but the crew had gotten used to having Harry always speak for her.

Around them, the other dragons were similarly getting ready to go, Oriundus and Hortensia being already set to go. As the others, one by one, confirmed themselves ready, Harry nodded at Berkley to issue the orders for the crew and officers to get on board, while he himself waited for Brasher. It was a relief to find the man soon hurrying up from the shore, along with one of his subordinates, Jackson, and together they were carrying wrapped package of what Harry knew to be wood and iron with them – the contraption where the ground crew cooked Horntail's meal.

"I'm sorry we're late sir, but I only remembered the spit just little while ago," the ground grew master said, breathing hard, and hurriedly had some of his men slung the wrapped package on board and tie it in.

"Cooking appliances for dragons," Berkley muttered with an amused snort. "What's the world coming to? Well then, Brasher, you and your men go aboard, and then we'll be about ready to go."

"Yes sir, Captain," Brasher said, touching his forelock in Harry's direction, still breathing hard, and then he and his people hurried onboard as well. Left alone on the ground, Harry and his first lieutenant eyed the fully rigged and manned Horntail critically for a moment. As strange it was still to see a dragon carrying so many people on its back, Harry had to admit that she was a handsome sight. Not quite as much as she would've been, in her battle harness, but very nearly. And she felt strong too, knowing that her crew weren't just her passengers but comrades in arm and, eventually, protection from the crews of other dragons. From her back they would fire rifles and together they'd be a well oiled fighting machine.

"She'll do nicely," Berkley said, patting Harry's shoulder and then climbing aboard as well while Harry, in a move he had seen the other dragons perform, had Horntail pick him up in her talons and lift him to base of her neck, instead of climbing up himself. It wasn't actually necessary and he would've been just as quick, climbing, but since his talk with Mitchell he had figured to put some effort into the whole dragon-captain thing, and was now making something of an effort. He would need to perform the move a couple times to become fluid, however – a dragon's front legs didn't bend quite right for it to be smooth on the first try.

But there was no time for that now. One by one, the signalmen of their formations were holding the green flags on their dragons and, with a nod to his signal ensign Brent, Harry had him hold the signal up as well. Very nearly immediately after, the flags went up on Quantuvis back, _formation go aloft,_ and they did, Horntail first, being the lead dragon, then Oriundus and Profundus who flanked her, and then Pennipes and Hortensia, who had the wing tip positions – and finally Quantuvis who, despite the fact that Mitchell had the command of their formation, held the rear of their formation.

They circled above Loch Laggan Covert once, and while Harry kept his eyes on Quantuvis for signals Horntail looked down at the valley where they had trained, the lake, the castle and the lovely heated courtyard, where the heat of the baths below kept the cobblestones warm even during the coldest time of the year. They were leaving behind no one they would really miss, but the place itself, as difficult as the original reception had been, would remain a warm memory probably for years to come.

Then Mitchell signalled the course and after Harry had spent a moment consulting a compass, Horntail turned accordingly to lead the formation out of Loch Laggan and south.

It was an experience, Harry decided a little later, to be able to fly for _so long_. He and Horntail had gotten used to the training flights and the endurance training where they’d had to stay aloft for hours and hours, but to soar over the miles with the scenery below changing from the dry highlands to grassy fields and finally to forests before starting to open to crop fields with some farms here and there…. They circled around more populated areas and never flew over as much as a village, but they could still see them at a distance and seen from above, from a dragon's back and a dragon's perspective, was really something different.

But the best thing, he and she decided immediately, was the flying; the glorious, glorious flying. Even if in formation and at a rigorously controlled pace, it was still a startlingly freeing sensation, to cross over such a distances in such a way and feel every mile go by in the beat of her wings and the wind in his hair. Freedom, Harry thought, must feel something like a dragon's flight.

However, the flight wasn't endless – it was long and took the better part of the day, but eventually they reached their destination, and Mitchell signalled the course around Dover and to the covert. A little disappointed to not see the harbour town from above, Horntail led the formation around the town proper, until they saw the covert grounds – where a Winchester came up, signalling them to empty clearings that had been opened up for them. They flew over several other clearings and saw several other dragons, before they finally got to land, with Horntail and Quantuvis landing first, then the middleweight dragons, and finally the lightweights.

Horntail's clearing had a bit of an audience by the time Berkley ordered the ground crew to bring down the belly netting to unload the packages and to strip the travel harness. Harry, setting himself down gently in her talons, looked curiously at the tree line surrounding the clearing, where numerous other aviators were watching, apparently having heard of the arrival of Britain's only fire breather and wanting to see. None of the curious aviators made a move to approach or disturb the crew's duties, though, so he turned to ignore them and instead watched the unloading.

"Jackson will be looking into setting the fire pit and the spit so that we can have her fed before it's too dark, Captain, so pardon him for not helping with the harness just now," Brasher said, coming closer for a moment. "Do you reckon Horntail would be satisfied with one cow tonight?" he sounded rather hopeful.

Harry cast a glance at Horntail, who shifted. She did feel hungry, but… Harry was used to waiting on food. "One cow will do, so long as there will be one for her in the morning," Harry said. "She can help with the food tonight, if the crew is too tired to manage a proper setup."

"It shouldn't be too much trouble, sir. It's a cold night and we're rather looking forward to sitting by the fire," Brasher said, and with a smile headed back to his work, showing no surprise what so ever that Harry didn't need to so much as ask Horntail to know what she needed. A little awkward, Harry smiled after the man. They had all gotten so easily used to him and Horntail and the little oddities they had, in comparison to other aviators and dragons. He had a lot to be grateful for, though he couldn't help but wonder if he ought to start making an effort on that score as well, before people started to wonder.

Horntail was almost fully stripped of the extra harness, except for the base one that was never really removed, when Mitchell and the other captains walked into the clearing. "Admiral Lenton will be wanting to see us all, I suspect," Mitchell said, glancing over Harry's crew, who were trying to manage the still slightly too hard ground enough to dig the fire pit.

"Let's go then. Lieutenant Berkley, I will see you later. Mr. Brasher," Harry called. "Just point where to dig; Horntail can do it much quicker than you can."

"Oh, yes sir," the ground crew master answered, brightening up, and just as the man turned to address Harry's other self, Harry himself turned to follow the other captains out of the clearing. The aviators marvelling as Horntail gave way before them, and the six captains passed through the woods without trouble, soon making their way along the lamp-lit route towards the covert headquarters where the aviators themselves stayed, and where the admiral's quarters were.

The Admiral ended up not meeting them in his office, but in the dining hall, where the man himself was talking with some of the aviators – captains, judging by the bars on their shoulders. "There you are," the man said, nodding with satisfaction at the sight of them. "Come, eat. You must be tired after your flight. Good to see you again, Akerman, Payne. How are Oriundus and Hortensia; well I trust?"

"Stuffing their gullets by now and soon fast asleep, if they know what's good for them," Payne said, clapping hands with the Admiral in a fairly friendly and casual manner. "Congratulations on your promotion."

"Yes, that," Lenton said, scowling momentarily and then shaking his head. "Nothing to it. Robert wanted to retire and there was no helping it." He shook his head again and then glanced over the formation, nodding at them before letting his eyes linger on Harry. "Well then, you must be the lad we ought to thank for Britain's first fire-breather! Captain Potter, is it?"

"Harry Potter, at your service, Admiral," Harry nodded, bowing his head. "I hope to live up to the promise and potential of my dragon."

Lenton eyed him for a moment before snorting and snatching Harry's hand in a shake. "No need to be so stiff, lad – we don't stand on too much ceremony here, and less form here on, if I have anything to do with it. We're all excited about Horntail, I'm sure you and your entire formation will do nicely. Now come, sit," he said, motioning them all to an empty side of the table. "Let's talk about your duties."

Their duties mostly included finishing their formation training, and patrolling the channel. "Unless the channel sees some action this summer, we will eventually be sending you to Gibraltar, there's little doubt about that," Lenton said. "You will be put to use where you are most useful, and as good as the Longwing formations are, it will ease the strain somewhat to be finally able to put fire against fire."

The captains of the formation nodded, Mitchell looking thoughtful and folding his arms. "I suppose we will be having a new training master while we work on our manoeuvres here?" he asked.

"For some of it, naturally, though I suspect that you have enough veterans amongst you that you can handle it all by yourselves, but you do realise that you will have to go about inventing most of it yourself," Lenton added. "Though we could of course use Longwing manoeuvres, it makes little sense past the obvious. So you will be having an unusual amount of leeway as far as that goes, and of course once you've settled upon a pattern you ought to inform whoever else you work with. In case of action, I don't want formations crashing together because one of them has a different set of rules."

"Of course, sir," Mitchell agreed, nodding, and the initial meeting was concluded a little later, with Lenton telling Mitchell he wanted to see the man privately later, but for now they could take the moment to settle in. And so they ate and drank and eventually went to look into their rooms, Harry finding to his delight that he had been given a fairly large one and that his meagre belongings had already been delivered.

In the meantime, Horntail looked in on the ground crew, who were already roasting her evening meal, with logs around the newly made fire pit for sitting, and bottles being passed around. Humming softly, she laid her head down, listening to the rancorous stories the men passed between them, already looking forward to days of liberty they would plead from Harry, in order to visit Dover.

It wasn't a bad start.

 

* * *

 

Harry dreamed of the Celtic magical site every now and then, sometimes seeing it empty in his dreams, sometimes full of people. The dreams, as strange and unsatisfying as they were, no longer surprised him and he had learned to even recognize them as such, and was not all that alarmed when he had another of them that night, his first in the Dover Covert. He dreamed of the site in the early morning, with mist lingering still about the woods, with dew clinging to the sides of the stones, to the blades of grass at their bottom.

There was a man there, in a dark blue cloak, looking about the site with a thoughtful, considering expression, stroking his fingers over his chin – the only part of his face completely visible in the shadows of his hood. "We'll have to take it down," he said, turning, and behind him Harry could see more men and women in similar long cloaks and hoods, half hiding their expressions and features and only revealing their lips, pressed thin with determination and dismay.

"Yes, sir," they said, and as Harry watched, they begun to tear the site down, bringing down stones and levitating them away.

Harry woke up a little disoriented, and with a dreadful feeling in his stomach, unable to go back to sleep even though the sun wasn't properly up yet. Eventually he swung himself up, dressed, and headed down to the dining hall, hoping that there was some food to be had and if not, then perhaps some tea.

"Oh, bloody hell," a voice startled Harry from the hazy remains of his dream and made him look up from his morning meal a little later, while a woman, in a bottle green coat with captain's bars and a wailing baby in her arms, stopped to halt the child who was slipping from her arm. It was an awkward, difficult task for the female captain, as she also had some papers and a folder under her other arm, and the child was wiggling ferociously against her chest, flinging little fists about.

"This is what I get for going through with all this nonsense," the woman muttered, blowing a stray lock of short, dark brown hair from her eyes and scanning the room. Harry, being more or less the only one in the room who wasn't a servant or a cadet, ended up at the receiving end of all her attention. "Oh, could you hold her for a moment? I'm about to drop these dratted files."

Harry hesitated, and the short haired woman's expectant look turned into a mild glare. "Um. Uh. Sure," he answered quickly and then accepted gingerly the baby, first awkwardly holding it – her – from under the arms before figuring that it looked fairly uncomfortable for the small, downy haired child, and instead supported her against his chest. The baby, surprised to have been so moved, looked up at him, blinking with confusion with fresh tear trails on her face.

Meanwhile the baby's mother hurriedly stacked her files again into a neater pile, sighing. "I'll be ever so grateful when Lenton is able to get this damned covert in order. This paper work is an utter nuisance – applying for leave in such a manner, ridiculous. Whatever Robert was thinking when he set this up, I'm sure I don't know. Some idiotic move by the Admiralty, I'm sure," she said, and then turned to Harry who was carefully using his handkerchief to dry the baby's face. "Huh," the woman said, blinking. "You have a good hand with children it seems – would you mind terribly holding her while I went to talk with Lenton?"

"Uh," Harry answered, still caught a bit off guard, and the woman nodded, satisfied.

"Just hold her and keep her entertained, she ought not to make any fuss that way, having been fed and changed just fifteen minutes past. I should be back in a trice," she said, already turning to leave and, before Harry managed to come up with an argument against it, he was left with the baby, and the woman was gone through the dining hall doors.

"Right," he muttered, and looked down at the baby thoughtfully. The baby looked up at him, lifting her hand and biting her fist, equally thoughtful. "Alright then," Harry said again, and sat back down, a little at a loss for what to do but… well, he had learned to wage a war in air. He was sure he could handle a miniature human being. She didn't seem too troublesome, at any rate.

She, whatever her name was, had nearly broken his tea cup after having arrested the spoon and started to bang it against it – and after that, disturbed by her own movements, had puked all over the sleeve of Harry's coat – by the time the woman returned, free of folders and looking a little less harangued.

"Oh, good grief," the other, elder captain laughed, at the look of Harry gingerly mopping the white mess from his sleeve with his now sodden handkerchief. "I suppose I forgot to burp her. Do give her here, there's a good fellow," she added, and Harry was more than happy to hand the baby away. "I shouldn't have thrown her at you like I did, I do apologise," she added, taking a seat beside Harry and waving to one of the servant to get her some tea. "It is just that she kept me up most of the night and then decided to wake up before the morning even dawned, and I'm afraid I am not at my best right now."

"It's quite alright," Harry answered, examining his sleeve. He hadn't gotten it all off, but… maybe it would wash? He had another coat somewhere he could change into before the rest of the formation woke. He shook his head. "Aside from the vomit, it hasn't been that much trouble."

"Kind of you to say so," the woman laughed again and held up her hand. "Captain Jane Roland on Excidium, at your service - and this here is Emily."

"Captain Harry Potter, on Horntail," Harry answered, and shook her hand. She had a very firm grip. "Excidium is a…" he paused, trying to recall the random snatches of information he had heard about other dragons stationed about Britain. "Longwing, I presume?" he more asked than stated. It was only the Longwings that didn't accept male handlers and somewhat picky Xenicas that had female captains, so it could be either one or the other. For some aviators it still seemed a bit of a shock, though to Harry it was more of a shock than it should be a shock.

But then, it was different times, and gender equality was… more or less utterly nonexistent. As it was, the entire Aerial Corps were hiding the fact that they had females serving in it, much to Harry's bemusement.

"Yes, he is. Hm, Horntail, where have I heard of… oh, the fire-breather, isn't it?" she asked, smiling a little wider. "My, it is a pleasure to meet you. It's all everyone was talking about here, five months back, about the civilian who somehow managed to harness a heavyweight fire-breather of an unknown breed."

Harry nodded, a little awkward. "I suppose it was something of a story," he said, looking away. Then he shook his head and looked at Roland. "Are you and Excidium stationed here at Dover?"

"Mm, in patrol duty," she nodded. "Since Emily's birth we've had some liberty, however – and now I need some more, blast that woman."

At Harry's curious look and prodding, Roland explained that the wet-nurse she had hired for Emily had had a near apoplexy when she had realised that Roland was an aviator, and had run off, leaving her with the unpleasant task of finding another. And until she did, she couldn't do much patrolling, seeing how often babies needed to be fed. Harry, a bit awkward and fascinated at the same time, felt a little sorry for the woman – she didn't even have the handy baby formulas people would invent in the future.

"Oh, but listen to me, chattering on," Roland said, and after having a sip of tea asked the servant who had brought it whether she could have her breakfast brought to her quarters. "I ought to go and get Emily to sleep, if she's at all willing – and then I should think I will have a nap myself. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Potter. And welcome to Dover."

"You as well, and thank you," Harry answered, a bit bemused, as the woman headed away with nothing more than a nod, leaving as quickly as she had arrived. Blinking, Harry turned to his breakfast – which he had at some point finished – and the stood up.

First Lenton and then Roland. Maybe the aviators at Dover were a little more lax than the ones he had had the dubious pleasure of meeting in Loch Laggan. He certainly wouldn't have minded if they were.

Stretching his arms, he figured he might as well go and cultivate that image of being a captain to a dragon, and go see how Horntail was doing. He knew, of course – she was fast asleep in thankfully dreamless slumber – but that didn't really matter. He could see that the ground crew was preparing her breakfast, at any rate.

 

* * *

 

They started on their first patrol flight that very day, wearing the light duty harness but with some additional straps and a full assortment of gear, even if not the full set of armour plating. The other dragons all flew heavy with bombs, flares and whatnot, but as Horntail, being a fire breather, couldn't safely carry more powder than it took to fire a musket, she was a bit lighter on that score. Not that it made any noticeable difference, Harry mused from her back – the others, despite heavier loads, seemed to fly no less fluently or strongly, and why should they? Horntail herself ought to have carried a couple ton's worth of weight for it to actually feel like weight, and it would take twice as much for her to actually feel the strain.

None of it was much use that first day, however. They flew for hours, first down a pre-set path over the ocean with the coastline not even a distant shadow on the horizon, and when Mitchell perceived that they had flown to the end of their path, they turned around and flew it back again. It wasn't bad, as flying went, the ocean breeze felt nice on Horntail's skin and even after the wind had gotten a bit irritating for Harry, he could duck under the tent on her back and be so sheltered from the wind. It did a get little boring by the fourth hour, but Harry didn't feel inclined to complain. There were worse things.

The following days were more or less the same, with the only difference being the courier that flew past their formation on the third day and how, on the fifth day, they ran into another patrolling formation who had drifted a little off route. Flying wasn't all they did, however, and when their day's duties were done, Harry and the other captains gathered around a large blackboard – sent to the covert by Thorpe's father with his compliments – where they worked on their formation's special manoeuvres. They had little chance to test them – most of them centred on the fire breathing and it was nothing they could test around the covert, with so many trees about, but once they had a set of them, Mitchell supposed they could take off to patrol one morning a little early to have a go at it over the ocean.

It was something of a surprise to find, about a week and a half into being at Dover, that Harry and Horntail didn't need to introduce Quidditch there, in order to have a game – or even mention it. One night, while having a walk with Berkley through the dragon fields to take a look at some breeds Harry hadn't seen before, they ran into an enormous clearing where some six dragons were furiously flying after the same sort of wooden leather and chain covered ball Brasher had made for the Loch Laggan dragons. The dragons fighting over the ball midair were all middleweights with the exception of one larger light weight, while at each end of the clearing a heavyweight flew in circles. And behind those heavy weights, Harry realised with surprise, was a line of red, rope or cloth, drawn between the tops of two trees, apparently identifying them as the goals.

"We'll, I'll be damned," Berkley muttered, while Harry closed his mouth. "I suppose the courier beasts gossiped about this game of yours until the dragons here wanted to try their wings at it too. I did hear that Victoriatus at Edinburgh had been complaining to his captain about how he'd like to play it as well, but I didn't think it would spread this far…."

"I didn't think it would spread anywhere," Harry answered, a bit bewildered, and then considering. It would be nice to play again, except for the fact that he needed to save Horntail's strength for patrolling, and afterwards she was a bit too tired for anything more than a bite to eat and blissful slumber. As it was, she was snoring away in her clearing, while the ground crew used the last embers of the fire pit to heat some sausages for themselves – so used to it by now, that they still kept at the practice even though they had easy access to the city of Dover with all the treats it offered.

Well, there would be chances for it in the future, and at any rate it was nice to know that there was a chance of a game, instead of needing to go through the trouble or arranging it all himself.

"I wonder if this has spread to the other coverts yet," Harry mused, thinking of Gibraltar. There would be enough dragons there for a game or two, and, if they would eventually be stationed there, it would be nice to play a bit there as well. If duties permitted.

"If it hasn't, it will be soon enough. Dragons seem to like that game of yours," Berkley snorted, and they spent a moment watching the game, making notes about how the dragons here had added some rules after one of the bigger dragons was berated by the others for nearly knocking down a tree, which lost them points. Then they moved on, checking the other clearings and their dragons out.

It was then that Harry met his first Longwing. "That's Excidium, over there," Berkley said, as they came near to the clearing of the rather vicious looking creature, blue mostly in colour except for the wings where they were orange, tipped with black. And they were pretty impressive wings, easily the most massive of all dragons Harry had seen so far – though not the reason as to why the beast looked vicious. That was because of the bone spurs at the creature's jaws, rather like tusks.

From his earlier studies with the cadets of Loch Laggan, Harry knew that that was where Longwings spat acid, but it was different thing to know it, than to see it.

"Oh, hello," A familiar voice said, as Harry eyed the dozing dragon with curiosity. It was Captain Roland, who looked a little less harangued than the last time Harry had seen her – her hair was neater, her clothes in better order and she looked much better slept. "Good evening to you both, Captain, Lieutenant," she added, looking at them curiously.

"Captain Roland," Harry nodded politely, wondering if she had gotten a new wet nurse for her daughter. It would explain why she looked so much better.

"I was just showing Captain Potter some of the dragon breeds he hasn't encountered yet," Berkley explained. "Your Excidium is the first Longwing he's seen."

"Well, that explains it," Roland said and smiled. "Come along then. I am just about to check up on him – he complained of a pain in his wing joint this morning, the surgeon said it was nothing of course, but I’ll still feel better once I have checked it out myself."

With her at the lead, Harry and Berkley followed her into the clearing where Excidium lay, rumbling with deep, sleepy breaths. Nostrils flaring, the dragon then opened his eyes, maybe recognising the sent of approaching humans, and once his feral looking yellow eyes found Roland, he immediately lifted his head, reaching to nuzzle his snout at her shoulder. "There, there, you old bird. How’s the wing?"

"It does not bother me much," the dragon said, sounding a bit embarrassed. "You were away an awfully long time today, though, Roland."

"You know that Emily takes up a lot of my time, but it is not for forever. Once she’s a little older, there will be more time," Roland answered, patting the great blue dragon's cheek and turning to Harry. "Excidium, this is Captain Harry Potter – he is the captain of the fire breather, Horntail."

"Indeed?" the dragon enquired, peering at Harry.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Harry said, having gotten a bit more familiar with the pleasantries of this time – mostly thanks to his third lieutenant, Cross, who had impeccable manners unlike Berkley who forgot his manners more often than not and Thorpe who was more or less the same.

"Yes," the dragon agreed, and then looked curious. "I have not met a fire breather, except to fight them. How does Horntail’s fire breathing work? Is it anything like spitting acid?"

"I only know what I've been taught in Loch Laggan about how Longwings spit acid," Harry admitted. "So I don't know for sure. I believe you have acid glands, connected to the spurs? Horntail's ability has more to do with her breathing – her fire comes out with her exhale, except it comes out with a sort of liquid quality," Harry trailed away, thinking about it. Though they had worked at the range and spread, he hadn't given much thought to the actual mechanism of the thing, not beyond what the surgeons had figured out between themselves. "It is rather like spitting, I suppose, but not quite."

"How long is the reach of her flame?" Roland asked curiously.

"About fifty yards now, though I've seen her do fifty five once, but we had a backwind then," Harry answered. "She can breathe fire almost three minutes continually also, though it leaves her gasping afterwards." He then tilted his head curiously. "How does acid spitting work, as far as range and duration go?"

"The reach is variable by the angle of spitting, and the winds, but we can accurately hit a target at a hundred yards. Excidium doesn't have to worry about running out of breath, but he has run out of acid, once," Roland said, folding her arms. "I believe it takes about a week to replenish a fully spent acid, so we try not to use all of it in one battle – one never knows if there will be yet another battle the next day, and acid will be vital."

They talked about fire breathing and acid spitting for a long while, comparing the advantages and disadvantages of the abilities. Fire-breathing did have a certain advantages over acid spitting – while acid could eat through the hull of a ship and cause a leak as well as give dragons and men alike deadly injuries, it couldn't completely incapacitate a ship in single pass, not like fire could. Horntail's fire was more agile too – Longwings had to aim downwards to spit acid while Horntail on the other hand could breathe into any and every direction she chose.

Being as much Horntail as he was Harry, the wizard naturally had a biased opinion of matters, but he couldn't deny that he wasn't impressed with acid spitters in general and Longwings in particular. It wasn't only the acid spitting that made them valuable – their large wings were important factor too.

"They give a Longwing away instantly, it's impossible to mask a wingspan of a hundred and twenty yards, not to mention the colouring…" Roland sighed. "But it makes long distance flights very easy, I'll tell you. Excidium would make a prime courier-beast."

"Well I never!" the dragon huffed, sounding insulted.

Harry smiled, looking up at the dragon and wondering if any of the dragons back in… back in the wizarding world spit acid. He had never heard of anything the like before coming here. Though, there were a lot of things about dragons he had never even dreamt of, before coming here.

Thinking about it made him wonder, for the first time in a long while, if he could ever get to go back. What would happen if he could go? Would he? With Horntail? Frowning a bit, Harry looked away and towards the direction where Horntail was slumbering after the days exercise – dreaming of flying, of stretching her wings and trying to reach outer space.

With a little guilty wince, he realised that he didn't miss the other world at all. Hermione and Ron maybe, occasionally, but… Ron hadn't been too nice to him, in those last days, and Hermione had been torn between taking one side and the other. And everyone else had been, well. He didn't miss that, any of it.

With dragons about, he didn't even miss magic all that much, but he hadn't had much time to think about it in a long, long while. His training, settling in, trying to manage a life between two bodies, everything, had taken precedence. And when he thought of it now – here, in the middle of a covert full of dragons and soldiers… it seemed like a distant, half forgotten thing.

"Captain?" Berkley asked worriedly, setting a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Ah, sorry," Harry answered and shook himself out of his thoughts. "My mind wandered. I… I guess I’m more tired than I thought, after today's patrol."

"Perfectly understandable," Roland said, smiling at him. "Perhaps you should retire for the night. Excidium and I will be grounded at the covert for a while longer, so there will be other chances to talk. If you'd like, of course."

"I would like it very much, thank you, ma'am," Harry nodded, glancing at Berkley. "I think I will just say goodnight to Horntail and be off. It was, hm, that way?" he asked, a bit unsure.

"Yes, sir, it was," Berkley assured amusedly. "Just follow the lighted path, you'll find her eventually. And good night, Captain."

"Good night, Lieutenant. Captain," Harry added, nodding to Roland's direction before turning o follow the lighted path towards Horntail's clearing, where she at his nudging roused from her slumber, stiff necked and still tired, alerted by his thoughts.

It was both a bit of a show as well as a comfort, to rise to sit on Horntail's foreleg, and to wrap her neck about him. There, sheltered in himself, Harry wondered about dragons and magic and the distant place which was not quite _home_ anymore, but just that other world. He hadn't even realised that it had happened, and he had no idea _when_ it had happened, but he really had stopped _missing_ that place, stopped thinking about it – stopped wondering if he'd ever go back.

Instead, he had started to wonder about things like future actions and battle manoeuvres, about the possible posting at Gibraltar. Sometimes, when the future loomed ahead a bit bleaker than at other times, he even wondered about the blackboard, and its small success in Thorpe's father's shop. His future and his life weren't set in stone here – he had no vault full of gold to fall back on, and no Privet Drive Number Four to return to. So starting to compile capital for himself, seriously making the effort to gain wealth beyond what salary the Aerial Corps paid him, seemed like a good idea. Just in case.

Leaning his cheek against her chest and listening to the rumble from inside her, while she eyed him from the corner of her eye, wondering how small he looked against her, Harry Potter wondered when the year seventeen ninety five in an alternate reality had became _home_ for him. When he had decided to join the Aerial Corps? Or maybe when Berkley had become his first lieutenant and actually made him like the idea of being in the Aerial Corps? Or when dragons had learned Quidditch and brought the one thing he missed the most about magic right back to him?

Probably it had been when he and Horntail had spread their wings that first time after she had healed, when the harness had just been finished and they had been able to fly to their heart's content, and with as much spinning and weaving as they could manage. And when they had thrown themselves at the training to improve themselves, and when their place in the formation had became not just something that had to be, but something that they knew and _deserved_.

Smiling, Harry closed his eyes. They had been training themselves sore so far, and it would only get tougher from here on. There would be more patrol flying tomorrow, and maybe a bit of training before it – and then more the day after that, and the day after that. And then they'd work out some manoeuvres and tactics with the formation, to make the best use of Horntail's capabilities. And maybe, just maybe, they would one day use the training, the manoeuvres and the tactics against whoever might threaten the shores of England. And they'd _matter_. Not just because Horntail happened to be a fire breather, but because they knew how to use her fire breathing _properly_.

It was more than could be said about the magical world and the Boy Who Lived.


	9. Part I, Chapter IX

It was only after a good month of patrolling, sometimes during the day and sometimes during the night, before Harry and Horntail got their first piece of action. It was during a midnight patrol, something more difficult than day patrol due to the difficulty of navigating over the pitch black ocean, and more dangerous because of the French Fleur-de-Nuits, one of the few dragon breeds that could see in the dark.

Harry was quickly gaining the aptitude of navigating by the stars and was keenly following Polaris, when the flash of light alerted Horntail, catching her view just at the corner of her eye. Just as both her and Harry turned to face the flash of light, one of Harry's signal ensigns – Brent, who had infinitely better eyesight than Harry did – called; "Sir, signal flare forty degrees east!"

"I see it," Harry answered, glancing back at the other dragons at Horntail's side – all but Oriundus and Profundus, the yellow Reapers that flanked her, invisible in the dark. "Signal the others, in case they didn't see. Mr. Berkley!"

"Here, sir," Berkley said, coming to his side and keenly looking to the east, cupping one hand to cover his goggle covered eyes from the shine of the half-moon. "Must be a ship, the signal came pretty low – and there's another one!"

Harry nodded more to himself than to answer, his mind curiously quiet but very active. He had been drilled in almost all possible situations that might occur during a night patrol, and two signals, one so soon after another, could mean only so many things. It was the only mode of defence ships – and dragons, for that matter – had against Fleur-de-Nuits in the dark, trying to light the blackness, and to blind the sensitive eyes of the beasts.

"Signal from Profundus, sir," Brent said, peering back at the darkness at Horntail's right flank. "Formation aware, engage course for signal, prepare for battle." he called and then added, "Exercise caution."

"Alright. I make it five minutes of flight, do you concur, Lieutenant? Very good. Let's get ready, then," Harry said and nodded at Berkley, who called everyone onboard to stations. While Harry and Horntail turned their attention towards the dying signal flare, mentally preparing for the battle to come – hoping that their training so far had prepared them well enough for it – the crew got ready. Carabiners were tightened or slackened depending on one's station, muskets pulled out and checked, and the flight tent was taken down. Below, Harry had no doubt that the bellmen were already loosening the packing on bandages and whatnot, just in case.

The flight towards the distant signal flare was otherwise quiet, and unnerving – almost silent, except for the distant sound of a dragon, roaring. When they got closer, the entire formation still so very quiet, all the dragons keeping silent, trying to be cautions and maintain some element of surprise. If they could come at the Fleur-de-Nuit, without it noticing….

Harry narrowed his eyes, both his and Horntail's hearts beating hard with excitement, their combined mind was flashing with the engaging-tactics the formation had been planning for just for this sort of occasions. There were of course tactics and manoeuvres specially designed for fighting Fleur-de-Nuits, but Horntail had one advantage to all other British dragons – she didn't need flares to light her way in the dark. Therefore, for her formation there was no need to prepare for usual strategies, to prepare flash bombs and fire them before engaging, no – she could light the sky with one billowing flame, even if only for so long, and after that, after she had the Fleur-de-Nuit sighted, a longer flick of flame would keep it in sight.

However, it was decided that if Horntail ever got the chance to get at the Fleur-de-Nuit's eyes without it realising the danger, she was to go for it as brightly and brilliantly as she could. And as far as Harry could tell, the dragon didn't realise the formation was approaching – and, of course the French didn't know about Horntail yet, didn't know that the British had their own fire breather.

If that wasn't an advantage, he didn't know what was.

"I think we might be able to take it down without engaging in too risky a battle - maybe even capture it," Harry said slowly, excitedly, as they got closer and Horntail started hearing not only the dragon's roaring, but the distant sound of musket fire, and the beating of the dragon's wings. "We'll try to blind the beast."

"Ca - _capture a Fleur-de-Nuit_?" Berkley sputtered with disbelief and then composed himself. "Going at its eyes in pitch black like this might be difficult, sir. Do you think Horntail can do it?" he asked. "We haven't tried target practice in darkness before."

"She can do it," Harry said determinately, frowning while peering at the darkness keenly through Horntail's eyes. Neither he nor she could see in the darkness – but they could see the stars and the moonlight was very bright. Horntail could just barely see the smoke trails and the outline of the ship – and against the stars, there was a quickly flickering patch of blackness, moving about, avoiding being hit. The Fleur-de-Nuit was practically invisible, but it gave itself away by blocking the starlight behind it.

"But we need to get at the beast before alerting it to our presence," Harry said, and glanced back and towards Oriundus and Profundus. "Mr. Brent, signal for Quantuvis and Captain Mitchell; night formation number twelve, requesting confirmation."

Brent signalled it, and Profundus relayed the flags to Quantuvis, who was too far in the back to see Horntail's signals. It took a gruelling two minutes for the answer to come, and it was disappointing to say the least. "Negative. Night formation four, engage on first flash."

"Damn," Harry muttered, disappointed. Fleur-de-Nuits were the dragons he had thought about the most, in terms of fighting them, as well as Flamme-de-Gloires. There had never been a Fleur-de-Nuit that had been captured by the British, or probably by any other, because they only flew during the night, and were borderline impossible to see. But if you could surprise one, maybe even paralyze it momentarily… and on top of that, Harry rather doubted that a Fleur-de-Nuit’s crew was that prepared for boarding, seeing that not one of them ever had been boarded.

But then again, every boarding had its dangers – incredible, heart wrenching dangers. Boarding a black dragon in pitch blackness….

"It's your and Horntail's first battle, Captain Mitchell doesn't want to put Horntail in any undue danger just because of one Fleur-de-Nuit, I suppose," Berkley said, clapping Harry's shoulder. "Next time."

Harry shook his head, and let it go, while his first lieutenant called the crew to prepare for flare fire from Profundus or Oriundus. Harry instead concentrated his thoughts – his and Horntail's full attention – on the upcoming battle. If there would even be a battle – night formation four was basically an intimidation attack, showing their numbers and trying to simply chase the attacker away. And six dragons, with a heavy weight in the lead and the rest made of average and large middle weights, could be pretty intimidating.

Then the flare was in the air, and Horntail could for a moment see the black, sinuous form of the Fleur-de-Nuit, as it screeched and quickly angled away from the source of the light, vanishing into the darkness again. Horntail quickly turned in pursuit, the rest of the formation following her lead with practiced grace and ease, all of them roaring their challenge and making as much noise as they could, trying to simply chase the enemy dragon away.

A cheer came from down below, but Harry barely heard it. The black dragon had vanished into the darkness once more, stifling it's grumbling and crying admirably, and it was once more unseen and almost unheard, in the noise made by the formation. Horntail listened and turned her head this way and that, trying to find the blasted beast, but in vain.

There were few musket shots in the darkness, but where they came from and who had shot them was impossible to say. Then, just as Horntail was about to inhale so that she could light the sky with some flames, there was a odd sounding whistle in the air and then –

The light of the bomb going off – entirely too close for comfort – was sudden and bright enough to startle even Horntail and momentarily blind Harry who had the misfortune to look in the bomb's direction. Careening away from the explosion, Harry cried quickly to Berkley and Brent to see if anyone in the formation had been hit, and then Horntail drew breath. The Fleur-de-Nuit wouldn't get the chance to drop another one without being seen, they thought, barely hearing Berkley's report of Oriundus having fallen away from the formation.

Then Horntail spat out a long tongue of flame, at least forty five yards, which lit up the darkness in single, bright column. There was a surprised dragon cry, a slightly pained one, and the flick of a dark wing as the Fleur-de-Nuit escaped from the light. Horntail had its direction though, and turned her head – and her flame – to follow. How it must've looked from the outside, from another perspective, Harry would've much liked to know – the flame moving, following like the spray of a hose but bright and hot.

The Fleur-de-Nuit was fast, and its wing beats were enough to disrupt the flame some, but not enough. Trusting the formation to follow, Horntail made chase, breathing fire as long as she could as far as she could and finally making contact. The Fleur-de-Nuit’s next screech was definitely pained, as the flame hit the base of its tail.

As Oriundus returned to his place on the formation and Produndus signalled, "Repeat action!" Horntail stopped roaring out, inhaled as quickly as she could, and spat fire once more. The break in light had been enough for the Fleur-de-Nuit to get far enough away so that the fire didn't hit it, but it was still close enough to be seen.

"It's turning east," Berkley said, sounding satisfied. "It's fleeing."

Horntail's crew cheered, and Harry could hear similar sounds from the backs of the other dragons, as well as from the ship, though from them the cheers sounded decisively alarmed. Sighing, Harry leaned back on his spot on Horntail's neck while she breathed in and out, to get the smoke out of her lungs. It hadn't been an especially _exciting_ first engagement, nor one where he could let Horntail's abilities really shine, but he had no room to complain, and neither did she. No one had been injured, there had been very little risk to her or him or their crew… all in all, it could've gone worse.

"Is Oriundus alright?" he asked, turning to Berkley.

"A bit stunned and seems to have some burns about the face, but he'll live," Berkley assured him.

There was then a salute from the ship below, a little haggard – the cannon fire a little startling for Harry and Horntail – but impressive nonetheless. Normally in these circumstances, it would've required identification from the formation first, but in the dark it would be impossible to see flag signals from the dragons, and it was rather unnecessary at that point.

Soon enough Quantuvis signalled that Pennipes and Captain Simmons would descend to talk with the captain of the Navy vessel they had just rescued – there was no way for the ship to make a landing platform by itself, and Pennipes was smallest of their formation, and thus could get closer to the ship than others. While Pennipes descended, Horntail and the rest of the formation flew in circles, waiting to see if the ship would need further assistance. It was a rather anticlimactic ending to the fight, but then the fight hadn't really been a fight at all.

"Not bad, for our first action," Berkley said almost comfortingly, once Pennipes had returned to the formation and they were setting out to continue their patrol as planned.

"I suppose," Harry answered and smothered a sigh. It would've been really _something,_ to capture a Fleur-de-Nuit in his and her first action. Pity.

 

* * *

 

"If France didn't know about Horntail until now, they know about her now," Lenton said in the morning, once they had returned, their dragons had been fed and ushered to slumber, and Harry was about to fall asleep on his breakfast. "Only time will tell how they will react to it. As of now, though, they're hopefully too busy in Spain and Italy to cause any fuss. However, bringing Horntail down will no doubt be the goal of every action against her from now on, especially if they realise that she is the only one."

Harry nodded, smothering a yawn while the other captains agreed – they had been expecting as much. While he rubbed at his eyes, his glasses knocked askew, Lenton gave Harry a sidelong look. "I don't suppose," the Admiral started cautiously, "That she has shown any inclination to producing an egg, by any chance?"

"No," Harry answered maybe a little more vehemently than he should've, but it was true enough. He had been keeping an eye on that, making sure as well as he and she could. Keynes had given him some pointers about what it would be like, if she got heavy with an egg – or eggs, as it would no doubt be in her case – and so far there had been no such signs. Which was just as well because Harry definitely did not want to deal with that. Not now and possibly not ever.

Hopefully, Hungarian Horntails didn't produce eggs the same way the dragons people here knew did, and that she would need actual insemination to make the eggs. If that was the case and he really wished it would be, then there would never be any worry about anyone pushing at her to procreate. Because after all, if there was no egg to impregnate….

He pushed that thought away quickly, while Lenton sighed. "Pity," the man said. "Keep an eye out, in any case. One fire breather is fine, but if we could manage to produce a line of them…."

"I'll… keep an eye on her, sir," Harry answered awkwardly. He wasn't sure what he would do, if Horntail got heavy with an egg – or eggs. He had no intention of breeding her, especially not knowing if the young would be intelligent or not. It was really best not to even think about it.

The action of that night was the first, but not the last. In the weeks that followed, there were other brief engagements, none of them too dangerous or all that exciting – though the time they ran into a French patrol very nearly went out of hand, as the Petit-Chevalier, one of the French heavyweights, that lead the French formation, nearly got out of control and rammed into Horntail. It was not due to the dragon's intention, though, more due to having his wing caught in the flap of another dragon's wing, which sent it off course – but thankfully Horntail got out of the way with barely a scratch to her hide.

In the end though, the French patrol wasn't all that inclined to get into a battle with a fire breather of Horntail's size – especially not with Quantuvis, who was very nearly a heavy weight in his own right, backing her up. So, the encounter ended with some fire exchanged, a few bombs dropped that hit nothing, before the French turned tail.

The most damage they got from the encounter was a few musket balls that had to be dug out of their dragons' hides. It, along with the small scrape Horntail had gotten, were the first injuries she had gained since their arrival to the world, but overall they weren't particularly bad – and in the end the surgeon assigned to Horntail's crew, Williamson, congratulated Harry on having such a well behaved beast.

"They usually complain like a thunder storm, the first time you have to remove musket balls from their hides," the surgeon said. "But Horntail's as cool as anything."

"She understands why it has to be done," Harry shrugged a bit awkwardly and looked up at her – and down at himself. Of course the balls had to be removed, it was just basic sense. He knew what they were made from, how crudely, and he did not want a ball of crude iron, almost already rusting by the time it was put in a musket, going septic under her skin.

"They're testing Horntail, I think," Mitchell said darkly later, once they had made report of the encounter and a tally of the previous encounter amidst themselves. "Trying to get a read on her range and abilities."

"Probably," Payne agreed. "I doubt that they have the time or the forces to try to do anything else at this point, however. With what's going on on the continent, they don't have the spare dragons to try and take Horntail down just now."

"So they're just jotting it all down, preparing for possible future encounters. I have to admit, it doesn't make me like it any better," Mitchell muttered, shaking his head.

But there was little they could do about that – at least not until later, around mid summer, when one French patrol they encountered took things a bit further, coming at them with the force of seven dragons, led by a Petit-Chevalier, the same one they had fought before but in a different formation. The encounter was instantly different – there was none of the avoiding and ducking of before, trying to tease a flaming attack out of Horntail. Instead the formation attacked head on, tearing forward like an avalanche in an attempt to force the British to break formation.

They had a manoeuvre for such formation breaking attempts, though, and while preparing to duck above the oncoming formation, Horntail drew a deep breath. The billowing flame didn't have much of a reach, but it spread wide enough to hit the leading Petit-Chevalier as well as the Pecheur-Couronne at its left side, and the Pecheur-Rey on its right. While the three dragons at the lead of the wedge formation faltered, startled by the fire, Horntail led her formation above the French.

Then the battle started – and in Harry's and Horntail's mind, it was the first battle they’d had. After Mitchell had decided on a tactic, which basically unleashed Horntail on whoever she chose and had the rest of the formation protecting her sides and belly. Horntail, after taking a good look at the formation, chose the biggest danger, the Petit-Chevalier, and dove at him, the rest of the formation following.

Harry had really a lot to be grateful for with his formation, all of them being so experienced – they didn't falter from their spots much, not even when engaged in pitched battles of their own, fighting the middle weights of the Petit-Chevalier's formation. Quantuvis, when the Pecheur-Couronne tried to force him away, stayed his ground and didn't leave Horntail's back open for an instant – and while Horntail roared fire and brimstone at the Petit-Chevalier, almost catching its neck in the process, Pennipes very nearly rammed the Pecheur-Rey to get it away from Horntail.

Harry and Horntail might've been young and new, but their formation's overall experience and expertise told, as well as Horntail's range, and the French broke free soon after Horntail had caught the Petit-Chevalier with a tongue of flame. Meanwhile, there was musket fire going off in all directions, the captain of the riflemen, Smithy, crying, "Fire!" and "Reload!" behind Harry's back while Horntail's five riflemen took their aim, and their shot. Harry himself didn't bother trying, instead he kept looking about him, behind Horntail – in every direction that Horntail couldn't easily look at – so that his overall field of vision was as wide as he could make it.

It saved them from being rammed by another of the French dragons, a fast and fairly light weight one that Harry didn't know the name of, which descended in a blur of red and gold like a flaming arrow, and very nearly _sat_ on Horntail's hind quarters. But Harry saw her, and Horntail managed to twist away from the plummeting attack, and instead of ramming her, the red and yellow light weight plummeted past them, and towards the ocean surface.

The break in Horntail's formation eventually came, though, when Profundus was taken out by a bomb that hit him on the side. There was a terrible cry and the air was heavy with the smell of smoke and gunpowder, as Profundus fell, leaving Horntail's right side wide open. It was only for a moment before Hortensia rushed forward to cover the gap, but it was a moment too long. The Petit-Chevalier took it eagerly, and the next thing Harry knew, Horntail's breath was knocked out of her by the sheer mass impacting her side – and then the Petit-Chevalier was bearing her down, both of their wings flapping wildly but out of synch, making them spin and descend.

"'Ware boarders!" someone in the back cried, while both Harry's and Horntail's eyes were on the French dragon, which had grasped a painful hold of her shoulder just below her wing joint. When Harry looked back, he saw that Horntail had been knocked so far out of the formation, that the damned red and gold dragon had gotten close enough for some men to jump on her back – and the spikes that made it so difficult to rig her with harness proved easy handholds for the French aviators, who with swords and muskets bore down on Horntail's riflemen and topmen.

Harry slackened his carabiner belt a little, so that he could fully turn around in his spot, and then pulled out his musket. There weren't that many of the boarders – only half a dozen – which confused him a bit at first. He had been taught that boarding a heavyweight shouldn't be done with anything but a full dozen or more. Then he realised that the spin Horntail was currently engaged in must've told there – some of the boarders had been flung off, or they had simply missed her back completely.

Whichever it was, it didn't matter. Harry's first – and only, no chance of reloading just then – shot took out a man about to put a sword to Berkley's stomach, while the lieutenant was fighting another man. Then, shivering and spinning, his attention split between the Petit-Chevalier that was clawing at her shoulder and chest, and then boarders that had already killed two of his men, Harry pulled out his sword and knife.

Berkley had done well, though. If Harry's crew, selected more for their manners and disposition towards him than for their skill, had ever been rough in their abilities, they were doubly determined in using them. Three of the six boarders were quickly taken down, then one more – and when one of them made a mad, un-harnessed lunge at Harry with a knife in one hand and a spent musket in the other, he never made it. The last of the boarders was taken out by one of the riflemen, who knocked the butt of his rifle across the man's neck, and by Berkley, who ran the man through and then kicked him off his sword, and off Horntail's back.

All in all, it was a rather sorry affair.

"Boarders repelled!" the call went out, and Harry could turn his full concentration to the Petit-Chevalier, who so far had been concentrating on keeping Horntail spinning, and beyond the help of the other dragons.

The angle was bad, the situation even worse – the Petit-Chevalier was too close and mad with pain from Horntail's previous burning. But it was the only thing they could do – they were already too close to the surface of the water, and if they fell completely, it would be all over for Horntail's bellmen. "Beware, fire!" Harry roared, and as all of the crew near to her head quickly ducked their heads down, or just scampered as far away as possible, Horntail inhaled.

It was a gruesome thing to see, and even worse to smell, as Horntail unleashed a full lungful of flames at the other beast's face. Some of it streamed past, billowing back and against Horntail's own neck and shoulder, where a few crewmembers let out stifled cries, but most of it hit its mark. The smell of burning flesh was horrible, and the high, shrill scream of pain the Petit-Chevalier let out even worse. It was far from graceful when they untangled from each other, the French dragon beating its wings madly to get away from Horntail, its face burned raw and its eyes beyond repair.

Horntail was just barely able to beat herself up and away from the ocean's surface, but the Petit-Chevalier fell to the water, moaning and gurgling with the agony of being burnt. Neither Harry nor Horntail had the time to offer the beast any sympathies, though, and turned their combined attention in getting back into formation.

Profundus was gone – having probably turned towards the shore. The rest were still there though, and still engaged in battles – Quantuvis being the worst off, being the largest and thus the aim of the most attacks. The large Parnassian had been raked across the back, by the looks of it, and dark blood was streaming down its shoulders and being sent flying by his wing beats – and there was the Pecheur-Couronne, reaching to do more damage.

"How's her shoulder?!" Berkley roared, wiping a trail of blood from his eyes, peering over Horntail's neck to see where the Petit-Chevalier had had them.

"Not deep!" someone yelled back. "The chest is worse, but not bad!"

Neither Harry nor Horntail cared, though – they could feel the people there, already applying the bandages and the pain was distant, inconsequential. So they turned their attention to helping their formation instead, and with a forceful lunge rushed forward, to roar away the Pecheur-Couronne from Quantuvis. Then, while Quantuvis faltered under the strain of his wounds, with people already clambering about his back in an attempt to cover the gushing wound, Horntail lunged after the Pecheur-Couronne.

There was no formation to speak of at this point, but Horntail was a little better because of it. It was more Harry's history with Quidditch and her natural instincts in the works now, rather than their formal training, as they ducked and weaved past the wings and tails of other dragons to catch their prey – only it was easier, because they didn't have to reach out their hand to the snitch this time, and instead their range was flaming, and fifty yards long. With their hearts pounding and blood soaring, the battle beating in both their breasts, they roared in near unison.

The Pecheur-Couronne had gotten its share of damage from Quantuvis it seemed, and was too sluggish in getting away. The result was ghastly, as Horntail's fire raked across its left wing, red hot and furious – not near enough to burn holes in the membrane, but hot enough to burn it raw. Before Horntail could rush forward, and for the kill however, the damned red and gold beast was there again, trying to distract them and save their fellow.

 But Harry was not thinking at that point, not considering formations or manoeuvres, and instead was a joined being of instinct, his and hers mingled, excitement and fear and Quidditch and sheer draconic fury. The red and gold beast came at Horntail from below, trying to get at her belly – and the move to answer that challenge was more natural than anything they had ever done. Horntail's tail lashed down and then forward, sword-like spike lunging straight ahead like a well-aimed rapier.

The little light weight had no chance. The spike skewered it from the side, going in just above its hip and lunging right into its ribcage. The dragon was dead in an instant, and with a flick of her tail, Horntail send her and her crew careening down, to crash into the water.

With the Petit-Chevalier out of the count, the Pecheur-Couronne only barely flying, and the little red and gold dead, the French conceded their defeat and turned tail, as well as they could. With the Pecheur-Ray supporting the Pecheur-Couronne, they angled away and detached themselves from Horntail's scattered formation, turning to make their way towards the east and France.

And just like that, it was over.

"Good god," Berkley gasped, and Harry could hear how somewhere on Horntail's back someone was retching. He and she, both returning to their senses a little, felt a bit queasy too – the smell of fire and burnt flesh was still heavy in the air, and below them the Petit-Chevalier bobbed on top of the ocean waves, still alive but grievously wounded. And not far from him, the little red and gold dragon floated limply in the waves, a wretched bleeding thing with what remained of it's crew barely hanging onto it's corpse for support.

After a moment of stunned horror, Mitchell ordered the formation into order. Then Pennipes and Hortensia descended to the water, to help those remaining of the gold and red's crew, and see what they could do for the Petit-Chevalier, and its crew.

In the end, they captured fifteen French officers, and the Petit-Chevalier – Priorisus – who though having lost his eyes and most of the skin of his face, would live. It was a gruesome sort of victory that left all of Horntail's formation and crew pale and quiet, and Harry thinking about Horntail's long ago thought and earlier realisation. Considering the ease with which she had killed the little red and gold, it was pretty clear that a Hungarian Horntail's natural prey was indeed other dragons.

And now everyone else knew it too.

After everything had been sorted out – and the sorting out was awful, considering that Horntail's formation had to first manage the escort and then the watch over the wounded Petit-Chevalier while he was being treated and while his captain was kept under guard – Harry and Horntail found themselves under the receiving end of less jealousy and admiration, and more unease.

Of course it took him some time to figure that out – at first he was entirely too busy watching over how the dragon surgeon Williamson tended to Horntail's wounds. They weren't quite as serious as they might've been – the Petit-Chevalier hadn't been trying to injure her, just hold her for long enough to some of the other French beasts to drop their boarders. Still, afterwards, the wounds did sting and ache – even more so, when Williamson with cruel efficiency went about applying poultice and bandaging them.

"They'll heal nicely I should say," the surgeon assured him, while digging out the long, cruel looking forceps he commonly used in the task of digging out bullets from dragon hides. "Just leave the bandages untouched for a day or two, and she'll be right as rain."

Harry, after promising to do so, went about inspecting the bandages on Horntail's shoulder and chest. She had some old scars – the most noticeable one being the long pale gash on her back, which he had been more or less the cause of, all those months ago. These cuts were relatively small, even if deep, in comparison. And most likely only the first of many to come.

Later, after the necessary medicinal procedures were done, and Horntail had been fed her daily roasted cow, Harry headed to the covert headquarters and the dining hall, where he found the rest of the formation captains.

"It's no doubt a very useful thing, that tail, but…" Lane shuddered a bit once the final turns of the fight had been explained to him, he having missed the end of it. His Yellow Reaper, Profundus, had suffered a couple of cracked ribs thanks to the bomb he had very nearly taken full to the chest, as well as some burns, but apparently would recover. "God, I get shivers just thinking about it."

"Seeing it wasn't any better either, let me tell you," Payne muttered, and Harry looked away. None of his bellmen had said much, once they had been released from their duties. They had probably all seen dragons die before, but not like that, like they were nothing more impressive than pigs skewered for roasting.

"Well, I'll say you did damned well, all things considering," Admiral Lenton said, once the formation had been soothed with some brandy - Harry included, and the stuff was going to his head _fast_. "Quantuvis will heal fine, I assume?"

"The surgeons say three weeks," Mitchell said, twiddling his glass a bit, and peering towards the doorway, as if itching to get out of the dining hall and back to his dragon. He probably was too. "He ate well and is fast asleep, though, so that's that."

"Very good," Lenton said, and turned to face Harry. "She's a fierce fighter, that Horntail of yours. Two dragons down and one killed. And a capture too! Not bad at all for her first real battle."

"Yes, sir," Harry said lowly, unable to face anyone. When the little red and gold – a Roi-de-Vitesse, a light combat beast according to Payne – had gone down, five men had been killed in the impact. And when Priorisus the Petit-Chevalier had fell, eight had died. And it was all his doing – his and Horntail's. It was an accomplishment, sure, and definitely a better one than _losing the battle_ would've been, but… he had killed a dozen people in it, wounded one dragon irreversibly and killed another.

The Admiral just looked at him for a moment, before patting his shoulder. "Well done," was all he said, and Harry nodded, not answering.

Nothing more was said to him that day and Harry retired as early as he could, to think things through. But, no matter how he thought about it, he doubted he would've done anything different even if he could've. And he had secured a Petit-Chevalier for Britain. Even blinded the dragon would be useful – Petit-Chevaliers were prime beasts, after all, and with the beast's captain under chains… well, the breeding grounds would welcome it.

The idea that this would be his life for however long he lived was odd, though. Not uneasy, not exactly – the war Britain, _this_ Britain, was in had become his war as well. But it wasn't exactly gratifying. He was happy that he and Horntail, who was sleeping after a heavy meal, had been able to help their formation and save Quantuvis, and the battle had been unlike anything he had ever experienced, but… but. It would take some getting used to, to be able to face the idea that this would happen again and again. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually there would be another fight – and Horntail, such a precious beast as she was with her abilities, would be _very_ much asked for in the war. Especially now, that she had become a true and ferocious fighting beast.

Wondering if what he was feeling was anything like what his parent's might've felt, during the first war against Voldemort and his people, Harry eventually fell asleep.

He nowadays no longer dreamt of the clearing in the ForbiddenForest. Instead he saw a dark room, where the stones of the Celtic site had been arranged into a ring, most of them missing, some of them crumbled. And, as he dreamed, he saw people in cloaks coming in and out the room, walking amongst the stones, writing things down in books and making notes. Sometimes they talked, mostly they didn't – and always, they worked around the stones, carving into them, measuring them, making markings on the floor.

In his dreams, they were rebuilding the ring of stones.

 

* * *

 

The dragons of course took the battle much better than the humans had, even the ones wounded. Quantuvis and Profundus both were in high spirits despite their wounds, and both insisting that surely they could go back to duty immediately, that their wounds were nothing but scratches and really, what if there was another battle?

"There must be more now, that we've finally had a proper one," Profundus said, while carefully lying on one side to avoid putting weigh on his bruised, cracked ribs. "It feels silly to me to be lying around like this when there are battles to be had."

"Hear, hear," Quantuvis grumbled, nosing at the bandages on his back.

Horntail offered no comment, as she never did, though she couldn't help but gaze at the rest of the formation with something like jealousy. Though she had felt a sort of… well, she supposed battle-fever was the only proper way to call it, during the battle, she didn't particularly feel the fighting spirit they did. She didn't feel… eager for a next battle. She'd fight, of course she'd fight, if battle were to come their way, but not with their hunger and eagerness.

Laying her head down and eyeing her wounded formation-mates, she sighed. At times – and many, many times – it would've been ever so much easier if she had been like they were, a normal dragon. Or as normal as dragons could be, in any case. If she was… less human-minded and more dragon-minded.

Though she had to admit, the double vision was damned useful. If Harry hadn't seen the Roi-de-Vitesse coming, she would've been rammed – and boarded much more successfully, that time. Having experienced that and knowing how useful it was, she wasn't about to give it away. But still….

Her thoughts trailed away as Captain Mitchell entered the clearing, freshly woken and shaved and carrying with him a parcel. "Morning, Quantuvis," the man greeted his beast, coming to the Parnassian's side and clapping Quantuvis on the snout. "Did you sleep well? How's the wounds – have the surgeons seen to you yet, today?"

"The wound is but a scratch," Quantuvis assured the man, nudging at his chest fondly. "I could very well go flying today, Mitchell. I am perfectly alright."

Horntail narrowed her eyes a bit, watching them. Harry was still asleep – dreaming of the battle, though it wasn't quite a nightmare – and she couldn't help but feel… a longing. They'd never be like other dragons were with their captains – they would never have that bond of affection, kinship. They were one and the same, and as much as they liked the way they were, they weren't… that self indulging. And really, affection between them would've been meaningless, akin to their right hand showing affection to the left.

And sometimes she couldn't help but wish that… well. Sometimes it felt like in the group of five other dragons and five other captains, plus their respective crews – their own crew of thirty, now – they were completely, perfectly alone. And that wasn't about to change because, naturally, no one would try and get between a dragon and its captain, not for either of the two parties. So alone was what they'd remain.

It would've been nice, to actually have that bond, the bond that made dragons normally so close to their captains, and vice versa. It seemed… nice.

Turning her head, Horntail sighed softly and closed her eyes, settling down to wait for Harry to wake up. Affection or no, though, neither she nor he would give away the abilities they had, the awareness, the double vision, none of it. They were entirely too useful.

Thanks to the downed dragons, they had some downtime – though Lenton decided that until Quantuvis and Profundus would heal, Horntail, Pennipes, Oriundus and Hortensia would be flying shorter patrols without them, there were still the more minor wounds of the rest of the formation to heal, Horntail's own wounds being the most severe. So, they were given a few days, to rest and regroup – a time during which most of the crews begged for liberty, and the chance to visit the town.

Harry, having not had the time until then, did the same. Berkley happily took command for the following day, while Harry and Thorpe made their way on courier back to London – to meet with Thorpe's father and see the shop where Harry's so called inventions, the blackboards, were being sold. He also took the chance to visit his solicitors – who were also Berkley's solicitors, but whom Harry had hired at his first lieutenant's suggestion to deal with the minor details as far as the patent of the blackboard went – and to see that everything was as it should be.

He did have an alternative motive for the visit, though. Seeing London was no different from seeing Edinburgh or Dover, odd and a bit alarming – especially since he had actually seen London a few times in his previous reality. It was eerie, though. The streets were narrower, all the signs so common and familiar were gone, and then there was the stink, everywhere, of dirt and horse manure and worse, when they happened by pass by certain streets or catch the wind coming from a particular direction. But, he had expected all that, honestly, and not why he wanted to come, not really.

Why he wanted to see London was because he wanted to see one particular street. Namely, Charing Cross Road. It too was vastly different from how Harry remembered it, older and newer all at once, dirtier and somehow neater, with cobblestones instead of concrete or asphalt, carriages and hansoms instead of cars, and so forth.

"Is there a particular reason why you wanted to pass by this road, specifically?" Thorpe asked, as Harry asked the carriage to slow down long enough for him to see….

"No," Harry answered, staring at the apartment building that stood in the spot where Leaky Cauldron was in another universe. "I don't suppose there is."

Aside from that the visit went very nicely. Mr. Thorpe's shop was very nice, and boasted loudly about the blackboards on its signs and windows, and inside there were even more advertisements, about boards fit for classrooms, for separate, individual students, for universities and for meeting halls, and so on. There were different sizes, even a few of different shapes, though the overall design was the same. Thin slates of dark stone in a wooden frame, heavy and difficult to manage.

"I don't suppose there is no way to grind the stone to powder and then somehow affix it to a wooden frame in a layer, some mixture of stone powder and glue or something of the sort?" Harry mused, eyeing the products. The blackboards in the future were much thinner, not to mention smoother. His first designs had been crude, of course, but he hadn't had much material to work with. "Or perhaps something like paint. Matte paint."

"Hm. I will have to consider it," Mr. Thorpe said, while Lieutenant Thorpe looked around with satisfaction, glad to have his suggestions work so well. "It could make it easier to manage – it is hard to get the stone in sizes we want, not to mention in thin slates."

"I don't suppose you might have any other ingenious ideas brewing, Captain?" Harry's second lieutenant asked.

Harry didn't, except… well, perhaps. "You'll be the first to know if I get any new notions," he promised. As it was, the black board business wasn't making him rich, exactly, but… it was adding a bit extra to his monthly Captain's salary. He couldn't, by any means, call himself prosperous –he wasn't even particularly _comfortable_ , as far as capital went. A little more in case of a rainy day wouldn't hurt.

"I for one would be happy to hear them," Mr. Thorpe said joyously. "Any inventions you might come up with, I will happily sell – if they're worth selling, of course. Now. A mixture of stone powder and glue, you say?" he asked thoughtfully. "Or matte paint… I am not sure if the sort of paint that would work exists."

"Well, I know less about it than do you, I'm sure," Harry said, shaking his head and pushing the thought of future inventions aside for now. "So I will have to leave experimenting to your capable hands, Mr. Thorpe."

 

* * *

 

There were no more battles like the one that won them the Petit-Chevalier over the channel. The French who had escaped must've carried a gruesome report back, because every patrol they as much as glimpsed in their patrols since then were always cautious at the sight of Horntail, keeping a wary distance. It was good, certainly better than going at it with their formation incomplete. With Profundus and Quantuvis both out for count, the usual formation had been shifted around a bit, and now Horntail flew with the Xenica Hortensia at her right and the Anglewing Pennipes at her left, with Oriundus keeping the rear, being the biggest in the formation next to Horntail with Quantuvis out for the count.

The formation got a small bonus for Priorisus' capture, Harry getting the most of it due to Horntail's part in bringing the Petit-Chevalier down, and Harry used part of it to treat his crew, especially the poor bellmen who had seen the Roi-de-Vitesse skewered, to a great dinner and better liquor afterwards. Thankfully, the strained atmosphere didn't remain, and afterward Harry liked to think that his crew was a bit better at ease with him – that he had proved himself and Horntail to them, with the action.

They were no longer just Britain's only fire breather. They were also a fighting beast, and very good at what they did at that. Though Horntail had gotten wounded, the wounds had been nowhere near as severe as they could've been, and having done as much damage as they had… well, once the horror of it passed, it was rather impressive.

A couple of weeks after the action, Lenton pulled Harry aside. "Normally I would approach your formation leader in matters such as this, but with Quantuvis down for the count for a while longer, and Simmons being only the acting leader, I think it's best that I come straight to you," the Admiral started. "Word of your accomplishment and the capture of the Petit-Chevalier has spread and been noted – it is being considered that Horntail's formation will switch places with Excidium's formation."

"I… don't understand," Harry admitted. "Isn't Excidium's formation stationed here?"

"It is, for now, but the idea was that Excidium would be sent to Gibraltar, or to Malta, once Captain Roland was ready and once you had gotten comfortable in your duties," Lenton admitted. "However, with things standing as they do with Captain Roland and her duties as far as the child goes, well. She has applied to be stationed here permanently several times. And with your recent success, the Admiralty feels that you are ready for the duty."

Harry frowned, looking at the Admiral thoughtfully. "Do you think differently, sir?"

"I think that you are very young, and that you have only had so much experience so far," Lenton admitted. "And I think that this isn't something I can safely order you to do. Not if you doubt your own and your dragon's capability in the slightest."

The wizard said nothing, thinking about it. Lenton was quiet for a moment as well, before continuing. "The thing is, the happenings in Spain make everyone nervous, and a little bit of extra force in Gibraltar wouldn't go amiss," he said. "The sooner we can reinforce the aerial force there, the better. Right now things are still relatively quiet, quiet enough for you to make your way there and get used to your new posting and duties, before things grow more heated."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "I think Horntail and I are ready. We… well. We can do battle," he said certainly. "We're not queasy about that, and if there was another battle tomorrow, we wouldn't hesitate. But with Quantuvis and Profundus injured…."

"Both Mitchell and Lane have been stationed in the Mediterranean before, so they will be ready to take duties there at any moment. You on other hand have not," Lenton said. "You and the rest of the formation can very well wait here, until your formation is whole again. But you could just as well wait at the Iberian Peninsula, and make yourself familiar with the territory, and the duties." He shook his head and shrugged. "In the end, it is only a matter of time before your formation will be stationed there. We might as well get a head start on things."

The wizard considered it for a moment and then nodded. "If the other captains agree, then I agree," he said. "And Horntail won't have any complaints."

"Good man," Lenton said, patting his shoulder and turning away to find Akerman, Simmons and Payne, to talk with them about it too, no doubt. While he did, Harry sighed and looked out of a nearby window.

It was already July. At the end of it, he'd be fifteen. His first birthday in this world – and after that it would be about four months, and he would've been in this world a year.

It felt like a lifetime already.

 

* * *

 

The formation instantly welcomed the new stationing, of course. As they quickly begun preparing for it, Harry realised that he had a bit more leeway there than most captains did, due to his age – he was the youngest captain of a heavy weight currently in service, and the Aerial Corps were treating him cautiously, not wanting to risk losing the use of Horntail to a potential trauma he might suffer. The others however neither had nor expected such kid-gloves, and when Lenton went to them, they took the mention of Gibraltar as a clear order.

"Are we ready for this?" Harry asked a bit uneasily, while he and Berkley watched Horntail being rigged in flight harness. They'd leave for Gibraltar that very day, making the way on wing most of the way, stopping by on board dragon transports and ships with landing platforms rigged, so that the dragons could get rest and some food – overall the journey would take them two weeks, maybe more. Harry had no doubts of Horntail's stamina, they could do it well enough, but the upcoming duties….

"The crew is, sir – the formation is still a bit rough and obviously incomplete now, but we're bringing ourselves into order nicely, I'd say," Berkley said. "You're quick learners, you and Horntail both. The Admiralty is rushing things a bit, maybe, but I think Horntail can take it. She's not that young a beast, after all."

"Hm," Harry hummed. Three years old to him was very young indeed, but dragons here matured faster than that – at two years of age they were all already mature enough to breed, most of the times – some of them even faster than that.

"Do you have any hesitations, Captain?" Berkley asked, glancing at him.

"No, I don't suppose I do. I'm still… well, there are plenty of things I don't know, lot of things I will probably get wrong, but that's why I have you, Lieutenant," Harry answered, throwing his first lieutenant a smile and then shaking his head. His crew knew to work around his flaws, as well as to repair them where ever they felt it needed – Harry still lacked that natural command and authority of the other captains, which made it easier for his crew to throw in their two cents, when they felt the comment warranted. So he didn't worry about that. And with Simmons and Profundus as the acting leaders of the formation, and Harry only needing to follow orders rather than made decisions, that would lessen the chance of him making catastrophic mistakes.

But he was still worried about something – some things, even. His past, the Celtic site – his and Horntail's bond. Neither he nor she were deaf, and they had heard the crew, recounting the battle – how Horntail moved and flew and reacted like she had eyes in the back of her head, and how he knew what she'd do without ever being told about it. The rifle men had spoken about it in tones of admiration, even awe, about how they could communicate so easily without speaking, how well they knew each other, but still. What if he slipped?

And what if he _didn't_ , and it became an asset – an asset to the point where he'd and Horntail would be thrown into any and all battles and expected to weather them the same way they had weathered the battle in which they had captured the Petit-Chevalier? What if theywere expected to perform to that extent always, and even become better? They might, or they might not. He didn't know yet, he didn't understand all the advantages or all the limits yet – so was this sudden transfer to Gibraltar maybe too soon?

Shaking his head Harry pushed the thought from his mind. It was no use worrying anymore – the decision had already been made, and they'd be in Gibraltar in a couple of days, maybe less, if weather permitted. He would just need to adjust and accommodate to whatever changes and problems might arise.

"Very well," Harry said. "See that she is rigged properly."

"Yes, sir," Berkley said, and went forth to check the rigging, the harnessing. While the crew clambered about Horntail, checking the straps worming through and past her many spikes and horns, Harry folded his arms, marvelling at the sight. He was still not quite used to the whole idea of dragons in harness, dragons carrying crew – not enough that the sight would've stopped impressing him.

"Sir?" a timid voice asked, and Harry glanced away to see Harcourt, neat in a recently washed runner's uniform, her red hair recently cut. "If you don't mind me asking, how long do you think we'll be stationed at Gibraltar?"

"Hard to say. Months, maybe years, it all depends on how needed we are," Harry answered, blinking. He hadn't had the chance to talk to the girl in a while – the patrols had exhausted him, and their studies had taken second place to formation and manoeuvre practicing. "Do you have some reservations about going, Harcourt?"

"No, of course not, Captain. I just… Fluitare occasionally stops by Gibraltar – he's stationed at Malta – and I was wondering…" Harcourt trailed away.

"Ah. Well, I think we'll be stationed in the Mediterranean for a while, in one covert or another," Harry answered, turning to face Horntail, who was just lifting the heavy flight tent to her back so that the ground crew could set it up. "I'm sure their will be a chance for you to see your father – and if not, letters should be quicker to send, from there."

"Yes sir," Harcourt said, relaxing a bit. Then she straightened her shoulders. "Do you have any duties for me, sir?"

"See that Brasher and Jackson wrap up the spit to go, would you? No last moment packing this time, please," Harry said with a smile and with a nod she dashed to check that Horntail's cooking appliances would be packed. As she went, Harry wondered if he should see about getting a cauldron to be used for Horntail's food making – the ground crew must've gotten tired of working roasts by now.

Soon after the dragons were rigged and their flight approved. Harry, Simmons, Payne and Akerman spent a moment talking with Mitchell and Lane who would be staying behind to treat their dragons, while the dragons themselves rejoiced about going or lamented about being left behind. Mitchell and Lane promised to catch up with them before the month was over, and with a great many handshakes, the captains separated. The crews boarded with some small ceremony, and finally Horntail lifted Harry on board, to her neck where he latched himself into the harness.

Then, with a leap, she was aloft – and a mere ten minutes later they were already flying away from Dover, towards the south and their new duties.


	10. Part II, Chapter X

His burn scarred cheek stinging in the wind, Harry grimly checked his muskets, making sure that they were loaded and ready, while beside him Berkley did the same. It was a warm evening, a fairly common Atlantic day really, but at the heights Horntail flew the warmth of the ocean surface meant little – and if the storm clouds above them would have anything to say in the matter, the evening was about to turn very cool. All he and all of them could hope was that the rain would hold off just a little longer, so that their muskets and rifles would be of any use.

"Four points north, sir, seven points down," Harcourt, his fairly recently promoted new signal ensign, called from her post, peering ahead through a looking glass. "I can see the _HMS Normandy_ – looks like she's firing pepper-shots, sir."

"She hasn't been boarded yet, then," Harry said, and thrust his pistols into their holsters. Horntail could see the ship as well, in the darkening distance – there were flashes of fire and small clouds of smoke, as the pepper shots were being fired at the dragons circling above, as well as smaller flashes of rifle fire. Their situation wasn't quite hopeless yet, then, though a bit desperate – by the looks of it, one of the dragons had raked a tail or possibly claws across her main mast, the sails flapping torn and ragged in the wind from their ropes.

"Alright," Harry said, tightening the straps of his carabiners, and glancing backwards. Behind him, the crew were already prepared and at stations, crouched low and holding tight, the riflemen already holding their firearms, ready to fire. And behind them, past Horntail's forcefully thrusting wings, were Pennipes and Profundus – their only back up these days, Oriundus and Hortensia having been assigned to Quantuvis so that their formation of six could work as two formations of three instead.

Though the initial cause of it had been the incapacitation of a Longwing formation at Gibraltar, the situation had became a borderline permanent one. Partly it was because that way they could patrol a wider area, and partially because it had been discovered that Horntail worked best with a smaller formation – though Harry, even after months of the new arrangement, didn't know if it was good or bad. Good, because having only two dragons as back up she could move faster, freer, and perform those manoeuvres that a bigger formation would only turn clumsy and inefficient – and bad, because Pennipes and Profundus, despite their skill and relative speed, weren't much protection if they were against a larger formation. The brunt of which Horntail and Harry both had felt several times.

Now wasn't the time to lament that, though, and with grim determination Harry turned his attention ahead. "Alright, let's announce ourselves," he called. "Harcourt, signal to Profundus and Pennipes to prepare themselves. We'll start with number six."

"Number six it is, sir," Harcourt answered, and quickly stood as much as her carabiners allowed, flags already in her hands and waving through the signals, first to the right and then to the left so that both of the smaller dragons would see. "Pennipes and Profundus confirm signals," she then said.

"Let's get to it. Prepare yourselves, gentlemen, this is going to be rough!" Harry called to the back, and while Horntail's crew tucked themselves tighter against her, taking firmer holds of her harness, she put on a burst of speed, and ducked towards the ship, and the enemy dragons circling above it.

It had been a year and a half since Harry's arrival in his new world. A year and half, and about to twenty battles on dragon back. Horntail had been put to good use and more at Gibraltar, escorting merchantmen and skirmishing with enemy dragons - and ships - be they from France or any other of Britain's enemies. More often than not, they patrolled the Atlantic and protected British ships, or rushed to their aid when ever they found them under attack – this battle, while a fair bit more serious than the many others Harry and Horntail had fought in, was nothing new. Ever since Spain had signed a treaty of alliance with France and Britain had had to retreat from Corsica, the seas had been growing ever more unstable. Though of course, the blockade still held, it wasn't without considerable effort.

And as ever, the British and the French naval forces were forever at each others throats, trying to bolster their forces by each other's ships when ever the situation permitted. It had been bad enough before, but for a while now someone had thought to use dragons to capture vessels and things hadn't been looking too good for British ships since then.

At least there were no Flamme-de-Gloires, though. After a deep indrawn breath, Horntail plummeted almost right into the formation of French dragons, spitting out a billowing cloud of flames. Pennipes and Profundus kept at her pace just barely, roaring their own, less dramatic challenge while Horntail turned her plummet into upwards lift and inhaled again deeply. There was little elegance in Horntail's manoeuvres now, but against a formation of five, their formation of three didn't have the time for elegance, only as much chaos as possible. And so she roared again and again, hitting an enemy middleweight on the side and sending the dragon fluttering backwards.

"Fire!" the captain of the riflemen roared somewhere behind Harry, and both rifles and muskets were popping off, their noise muffled beneath the more considerable noise of the dragons, and the crackle and hiss of Horntail's fire. Harry himself left his pistols where they were, knowing he'd need them if they'd be boarded – and they almost always were, Horntail being Britain's most valuable dragon currently was forever the target of boarding and the hopes of capture. Instead, Harry kept his eyes on Horntail's back and her surroundings, his eyes flickering where she couldn't see, covering as many blind spots as they had left.

After almost a year of constant service behind them, practice and experience had honed away a lot of those blind spots. So much so that Horntail had became somewhat known for it, because so far there had been only one dragon that had ever been able to startle her from behind, and that had been because Harry had been blinded by the burn that had left a permanent scar on his cheek.

They weren't surprised this time either – when the heavy weight in lead of the enemy formation tried to, Harry roared "Back away!" more at Harcourt so that she could signal the others, than for any other reason – and then Horntail was already wheeling away, her tail lashing out at the dragon flying past her, but only managing to scratch a shallow cut against the Chanson-de-Guerre’s side. Horntail's fiery roar caught the dragon's back, though, if only partially, and more than made up for the failure of causing more permanent damage.

"Captain! Pennipes is in trouble!" Berkley snapped at his side, and Harry glanced towards the small Anglewing – she was being harassed by two of the smaller combat dragons of the enemy formation, and was being turned away from Horntail.

"Signal Profundus!" Harry roared, and Horntail beat herself after the Anglewing. She couldn't lose either of her backup dragons, she couldn't afford to – and so she rose to the challenge, opening her jaws while on Pennipes' back, Simmons was roaring his own orders. Then, like practiced, Pennipes snapped her wings shut and dropped past the harassing dragons, leaving them wide open to Horntail's flame – and it's fifty yard reach.

The enemy formation was mostly broken up now, but not defeated – and Pennipes had been injured in her scuffle. None of the enemy dragons was under any particular strain yet either, while they were a bit tired from their rush to reach the _Normandy_. They needed to even the odds. "Signal the _Normandy_ ," Harry snapped to Harcourt. "Pepper shot to the starboard side, four degrees south, five hundred yards – in two minutes."

"Pepper shot to starboard, four degrees south, five hundred yards, yes sir," Harcourt answered and quickly begun signalling the ship below, where the crew had been attempting repairs and some shots at the dragons, mostly in vain. Harry waited until they got confirmation from the ship, before ordering her to signal Pennipes and Profundus to do a pattern twenty one at Horntail's mark, a pattern which was more a Quidditch move than a dragon manoeuvre, and which Harry had rather hastily thrown together when their formation had been reduced to three.

Then, with the enemy formation already pulling themselves together again, Horntail ducked and circled around the ship, Horntail pretending to be fretting away, slowing down at the _Normandy's_ starboard bow, as if trying to give Pennipes time to recover. Instantly the French dragons pursued, and then, peering down, Horntail marked the Navy gunners pointing the pepper-guns up – and roared.

Horntail, Pennipes and Profundus all scattered to three different directions, Horntail making a twisting, confusing manoeuvre that made the enemy formation falter for a moment, while Pennipes and Profundus just back winged as fast as they could. There was a popping sound – and Horntail just barely managed to turn her head away from the exploding, almost burning pepper as it scattered in the air, right in midst of the French formation.

The shot took out two of the enemy dragons, leaving them sneezing and sputtering and crying in discomfort while they tried to rub the pepper from their snouts and eyes. Triumphant, Horntail's formation came back into order and aimed straight for the still organised dragons, Horntail aiming and roaring right at the Chanson-de-Guerre, with every intention of incapacitating the dragon. The people on their backs were hastily organising, but not fast enough – some were holding rifles, even aiming them, and then –

There was a sharp stinging pain in Harry's stomach, that took him a moment to register fully. Horntail was already roaring away and the Chanson-de-Guerre was wheeling away, roaring with discomfort, while Harry glanced up. Both he and Horntail faltered a bit, her wings flapping for a split of a second out of synch, while Harry's fingers touched the hole in bottle green fabric of his coat, before she righted herself, and he, feeling oddly ill all of sudden, tore his coat open. Beneath it he had a relatively clean white shirt – it too now marred with a hole. A hole which was being surrounded by the wet, dark patch of his blood, spilling.

"B-Berkley – " Harry called, just as his strength faltered and he lost his balance. His first lieutenant was there in an instant, supporting him and leaning in to see – his face, already pale due to the wind and precious cold of the higher atmosphere, turned white.

"Williamson!" the lieutenant roared, putting his large hand on Harry's stomach to staunch the blood flow.

Struggling to remain conscious, Harry concentrated – Horntail concentrated. This was nothing new – he had been injured in battle before and he couldn't lose his alertness, not when there was fighting to be done. Grimly, Horntail kept on pursuit, with every intention of tearing her tail right through the Chanson-de-Guerre if she only could, while beside her Pennipes and Profundus tore and shot at the other dragons.

It was all a blur for Harry for a moment – he felt queerly blind, not being able to concentrate or see. His eyes were blurry, the goggles had fogged. Then Williamson was at his side, leaning in, ripping Harry's shirt open – cursing breathlessly.

"He needs surgery, right now," the surgeon said. "At that angle it couldn't have missed hitting his intestine – "

Harry couldn't hear the rest of it. Horntail had just lashed out at one of the dragons trying to pursue her, her tail spike tearing through the dragon's shoulder and some of the strapping of the harness there – it was ripping, men were falling. For Harry, the world spun – his stomach was burning now, oddly, bleeding and burning and stinging, and he felt cold.

Then Horntail was alone, blinking at the sudden feeling of being a _single_ entity. Hurriedly she craned her neck to see that her other body had lost consciousness and was hanging limply in Berkley's arms while Williamson pressed a wad of clothing against Harry belly, his coat and shirt all flapping open in the wind.

"Horntail, don't fret, he's only lost his consciousness, but we need to get him to the ship!" Berkley roared at her. "Do you understand me?! We need to drop Potter to the ship so that he can be treated! Williamson can't help him on dragon back!"

"I can't help him at all – I'm a dragon surgeon! The ship's surgeon will be better qualified!" Williamson snapped. Harcourt was already waving flags at the _HMS Normandy_ , informing them of the situation, and Horntail made a grim decision.

They had thought of it before, had even prepared for it. They lived a dangerous life, and in these times it took so much less to kill a man, than it took in the future – the medicine here wasn't quite what Harry had known, in the other world. So, any time Harry could die, and they had known that. Any time Horntail could die as well, dragons did even if they were infinitely harder to kill than men – a stray cannon ball from a ship or from a shore battery, not to mention about the claws or jaws of another, possibly bigger dragon, were risks they had to consider, always. Death, in their line of work, was very likely.

But that didn't mean that they he or she wanted to lose part of themselves. If there was a chance for Harry to survive, Horntail would take it.

Turning her head, she inhaled as deep as she could, and spat flame straight at a nearby dragon's wings, punching a hole through the right one and roasting the left one raw. While the French middleweight cried in agony and began to fall, Horntail turned sharply towards the _Normandy_ , and ducked low. There was some panic on the ship, people rushing hurriedly away from the poop deck as Horntail descended, slowing herself as much as she only could until she could almost – but not quite – touch the back of the ship, her wings tearing a bit at the sails.

Berkley roared orders and explanations down to the deck, until a few of the sailors came forward, to take a limp Harry from their hands, their faces pale and eyes wide.

"We must keep on fighting, do you hear me? We must return the battle!" Berkley shouted as loud as he could over the noise of dragons fighting above.

"But will the dragon obey without a captain?!" someone on the deck asked, but Horntail was already beating away, hoping that the sailors would take good care of her other body – because she didn't have the time. The enemy dragons had taken advantage of the lapse in their formation, and were harassing Horntail's formation mates. All, except for the dragons wounded by the pepper-shots – and one small one who, Horntail now noticed, was gone.

It was getting darker, and colder – there was some thin rain in the air already, and it was harder to see. But, the battle was still going on, and that was what Horntail would concentrate. So, with determination and enough fury to set the whole of France in flames, Horntail joined the battle with a roar. There were no more rifle fire soon after, no more muskets – the rain ruining the powder – but there were bombs – and after losing so many of their dragons, the enemy had grown desperate. How or why they wouldn't back out, Horntail didn't know – had they seen that Harry had gotten injured? Maybe. It didn't matter.

She fought, she roared fire and lashed out as best she could, but her and Harry's edge was gone. Their greatest strength wasn't the fire or her tail, but the ability to make snap fire decisions without needing to consult each other or anyone – the ability to just shout an order and have it followed, trusted. Without Harry there, that was gone, and Horntail's crew was less a tool and more a hindrance, as she went at the other dragons with Berkley roaring orders at her which she had no intention of following. The better range of vision was gone too, damningly, and without it Horntail was very nearly taken from behind by a falling bomb, that she only barely managed to avoid.

The French dragons, the three of them who were still left, had grown wary and wily though, and they were keeping their distance, avoiding her tail and her fire, as well as the guns of the ship below, not intending to be taken by another pepper-shot no doubt. They only got close enough to keep the fighting going, close enough to be a nuisance and a threat, but not close enough for them to fight.

It took nearly an hour of tiresome flying and roaring at the enemy without any proper fighting to realise why the French were lingering and stalling.

In the distance, she could see the lights and the sails of two vessels, coming quickly their way – both flying under the French colours.

 

* * *

 

Harry came to with a gasp of pain, just as his stomach was being bandaged up. There was a moment of disorientation – Horntail was fighting wildly, trying to get to the French ships and _torch_ them before they could reach the _Normandy_ , and for a split second Harry was more therethan he was in his own body. Then things settled into the usual balance, and he was him and her equally, both fighting and lying on a table, while someone held onto his shoulders, and the surgeon leaned over him.

Though, as the pain welled up like a tidal wave, drowning him for a moment and bringing tears to his eyes, he almost wished he might've stayed unconscious. But, now that he was alert, he fought the desperate wish for darkness, fighting himself into some semblance of coherency. "H-how bad?" he gasped, trying to lift his hand to push his goggles up and from his eyes. His hand was shaking too much, his whole body burning with agony – he felt like throwing up, and a little like dying.

"You're as well as one may hope. I won't lie to you, Captain – you have a ruptured small intestine, and though I did what I could to remove the bullet and repair the damage, these sorts of wounds can be perilously difficult to heal," the surgeon said darkly, tying the bandage with a twist, making Harry gasp breathlessly in pain. Then the surgeon was turning to him, holding a bottle. "Laudanum," the man said, and for once Harry drank the drug gratefully, wanting the pain to go away more than he feared the effects of the opium based concoction.

Gasping a little, he laid back down, looking up and at the man holding him down – who had probably been holding him still for the impromptu surgery. The man was some years older than his own sixteen now, a lieutenant by rank, and white as a sheet. "Could you help me up and to the deck, Lieutenant?" Harry asked. He needed to see – he needed another pair of eyes outside, and on the approaching ships and the circling dragons.

"Absolutely not," the ship's surgeon snapped at him. "The sutures won't hold if you go about prancing as you will – lie down and stay down. That's an order."

"I'm still a captain, my orders overrule yours. Though I do appreciate the sentiment. Now help me up, damn it – I must to see the battle!" Harry more gasped then ordered.

The surgeon didn't like it much, but the pale Navy lieutenant was just wired enough by the battle and the surgery he had been forced to witness, that he helped Harry up – even helped Harry to pull his shirt and coat on, somehow, before starting to more carry than help him out from below the decks, and above them.

How Harry didn't vomit with the pain and the sickly, welling feeling inside him, he didn't know, but somehow he managed to keep it inside long enough to see. He didn't manage to keep himself on his feet, though, and his knees buckled several times, the rocking of the ship not helping him there in the slightest – only the lieutenant kept him from the embarrassment of falling to his knees on the deck.

Of course, he had been able to see the battle before and was completely aware of it – the dragons were keeping Horntail back, biting and snarling and performing borderline suicidal manoeuvres about her just to keep her from attacking the French ships. Once Harry got to the deck, which was a flurry of action and movement, officers and men all hurrying about, exchanging rifles and trying to keep them dry while others tried to turn the sails, the ships, so that they could broadside the approaching vessels at least partially. Someone roared at Harry, asking what the hell he was doing on the deck and to get below again, but Harry ignored it, leaning forward and to see.

The ships were farther than they looked to be from above, but they were approaching fast. Above them, Profundus and Pennipes had been pinned down, one of them was roaring in agony at some wound they had gotten, and Horntail was in worse soup than ever – the Chanson-de-Guerre was there and it was doing it's all to do everything but rip her wings off.

"Sir, sir!" the lieutenant Harry was leaning against called, bringing Harry's attention back to himself. For a moment he looked like he would've liked to take Harry back below deck, but he sobered at Harry's expression. "Sir, I mean no offence, but can the dragons win? Do we have a chance?" he wasn't the only one who wanted to know – the ship's captain was hovering near by, and at the question he too turned to look at Harry expectantly.

Harry laughed feebly, mirthlessly. The formation was in shambles, and they were all tired – Horntail's throat was aching, she was almost too weak and too out of breath to breathe fire. If she could get one open pass at the ships, just one of them, then she could deal with them, but she could already smell the French pepper shots, that they were launching almost constantly into the air – and the Chanson-de-Guerre wasn't letting up, not one inch.

"No," Harry said finally, hand pressing against his stomach – the bandages there were already soaked through, the pained throbbing making his voice wheeze. If he hadn't been injured and on board the ship, his formation would've already given the battle up as a loss, and made their retreat. "No, they cannot win. If Horntail could get a clear pass at the ships – but she won't, not when they're keeping the air so saturated with pepper, and with the Chanson-de-Guerre so keenly keeping her away, she won't get anywhere near close enough."

There was a moment of silence, as he, the lieutenant and the ship's captain all stared up grimly, up at the hopeless battle and the thickening rain. Harry shook his head and swallowed – he could taste blood, and his head felt heavy, thick. Above, Horntail turned her head this way and that, to see her wing mates – it was time to retreat. Berkley was, a little hopelessly, calling for just that action, while Harcourt was signalling the other dragons to do it, with her or without her. They didn't expect her to follow the order, not with Harry on the _Normandy_. Didn't expect a dragon to leave her captain.

Of course, she would. The French, if they captured him, wouldn't kill him – instead they would try and use him as leverage to secure Horntail's obedience, which they would never get, naturally, not with Harry and Horntail being what they were. No, instead Horntail would take her crew to safety and then, somehow, Harry would figure a way out of the situation. It was another situation they had thought about, even prepared for – even if not under these circumstances.

"Alright," the captain of the _Normandy_ said suddenly, turning away. "Prepare a jolly boat! And someone get some food from the galley, quickly! And water too!"

"Captain Yarrow?" someone asked, and the ship's captain turned to face Harry.

"There is little hope – we may offer them battle as much as we like, but against these odds…" the naval captain shook his head. "I won't have Britain's only fire breather captured on my watch, not when I can do something to prevent it," he added grimly, and looked at the lieutenant supporting Harry. "Lieutenant Laurence, you will go with Captain Potter and you will do your damnest to get him away and keep him hidden, when the _Normandy_ is taken. In this dark you just might succeed, if we set the jollyboat down on the larboard bow."

There was a moment of stunned silence, both from Harry and the lieutenant he was leaning against. Then the captain snarled at his men, "Get that damned boat ready!" and all was motion again.

Harry didn't know much about life on board of a ship-of-the-line, but even to his eyes the orders were followed rather fast – the jollyboat was prepared, what little Harry had, his muskets, his sword, were thrown into it. Then there was a bag of something, food hopefully, and a small cask of water – and the next thing Harry knew, _he_ was being lifted into the boat.

"Row as fast as you can, as quick as you can," the captain of the _Normandy_ told the lieutenant, who had lost his bewildered look and gained a determined one in its place. "Your duty first and foremost is to keep Captain Potter from getting captured."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, and the jollyboat was lowered to the water, Harry smothering groans as with each jerk of the boat, he was being jerked as well – and his stomach, now sodden with blood and hurting almost more than before, did not agree with the motion in the slightest. He could already feel the fever rising, high and terrible, though the misty rain which was starting to grow stronger helped some there, cooling him down. Still, he was more than happy to let his mind wander more to Horntail and leave the pain behind for a moment, while waiting for the Navy lieutenant to join him.

"Turn back, Horntail, we must turn back!" Berkley was roaring. "There is no hope, we're out matched and out gunned, we'll only get ourselves killed at this rate! Turn back!"

Harry and Horntail hesitated. If she could prolong, then she could maybe pick up Harry from the jollyboat, once it was far enough from the _Normandy_ , but… no, there was no way. Not with the French dragons circling, trying to claw at her – their crews continually taking shots at hers. If she stayed and, worse yet, if she made a move to rescue Harry and thus gave away his location… well, all the efforts of the _Normandy_ would be ruined.

She had to turn back, lead the French dragons on a chase hopefully, and give his other body and the lieutenant time. Later, once the _Normandy_ had been taken and, hopefully, lead away, she could return and find himself.

With a frustrated cry, Horntail shot a billowing cloud of flames at the Chanson-de-Guerre, and turned away from the battle.

At that point, the lieutenant climbed down to the Jollyboat via the use of a rope ladder – and then, without any warning, Harry's vision blurred, the world about him tilted in a way that had nothing to do with the painful, nauseating rocking of the boat. Then he lost consciousness.

 

* * *

 

The French dragons chased Horntail, Pennipes and Profundus for nearly an hour in the increasingly worsening rain before letting up, and in all of that time, Harry didn't regain consciousness. It was the most fretful time Horntail had ever had by herself – she was usually calmer than Harry, not having his hormonal body and brain to deal with, but having herself so severed was unnerving. She felt half of herself without her other body, incomplete and useless. There was no way to communicate with Berkley, nothing beyond nods and shakes of her head anyway, and on top of that her crew were all terrified that any moment she'd turn back and go to search for her captain, leaving them to the mercy of her whims – and those injured, to the mercy of time and their wounds.

And not knowing what had happened to Harry – if the Navy lieutenant had gotten him safely away or if the French ships had caught them, if he was still at liberty or captured, was even worse. If she hadn't had her crew to care for, she really would've gone back, just to free herself from the horrible lack of knowledge.

But she kept on flying – pausing only for a moment after the French had finally turned around so that Pennipes could take support from her, the Anglewing having suffered so bad wounds that she had been flying on the force of will alone. With Pennipess muttering tired apologies and Profundus fluttering about them anxiously, they made their tired way towards the Iberian Peninsula.

It was one of the longest flights of Horntail's career so far, turned ever slower by the worry. Because, even if Harry was still at liberty, there were his injuries. A ruptured intestine was a damned serious thing in these times, especially if the ship's surgeon had just pinched it shut with some sutures and left it at that – Horntail didn't even want to think what sort of infections Harry could and, hell, probably _would_ get. It wouldn't matter where he was, if the injury was bad enough – he might never wake up, regardless.

Well, if he did die… at least it would be painless, if he was unconscious. That was another thing she and he had thought about – what it would be like, if one of them died when both were conscious, what it would feel like? Would it be like going into a dreamless sleep and then being left alone in a single body – or would there be something else, something… spiritual? They were a single mind in two bodies, but were they also a single soul – or two halves of a soul? Would the other piece die, come to the other body, or… move on?

The thoughts plagued Horntail now, as she hung her head and persevered as much as she could under Pennipes' weight – as a small middleweight, Pennipes wasn't as weighty as some other dragons Horntail had supported after battle, but Horntail herself hadn't escaped without being scratched several times, and the gouges had turned into a throbbing masses of agony at her sides, on her back – she even had one on her neck, judging by the way Williamson tried to make her turn her head in an awkward angle, for bandaging.

It felt like forever had gone by, dull and pained and painfully slow, before they finally could see land, and then familiar buildings and the flags of the port. Some other dragons came aloft at the sight of them – there was Quantuvis, coming hurriedly to her aid, thank god. The way was too short to bother with transferring the burden, but with Quantuvis' help she could set Pennipes down without injuring either of them.

As the crews and dragons shouted at each other Horntail, ever the mute, flew tiredly but determinately to the covert. Berkley shouted directions at her, pointing her to certain grounds, and with a deep sigh she acquiesced. Then Quantuvis was there, helping her with Pennipes' weight and her own descent, and they came down in a somewhat ungraceful heap in the clearing, Quantuvis, Profundus and Oriundus quickly going about lifting the almost limp Pennipes from Horntail's heaving back.

"You did well, old girl, you did remarkably well," Berkley said, after coming down and by her head, which she rested tiredly on the ground. He didn't touch, but he came close, offering comfort with his closeness and familiarity. "Just wait a moment so that we can unload the crew and then you can lay down. You did very well, Horntail, damn good job."

Horntail sighed, nodded, and waited. The unloading didn't take long – the other crews and the ground crew were there in an instant, helping the wounded, tired aviators from her harness, bringing down her belly netting. Then, once Berkley gave her the clear, she collapsed onto her belly, sighing heavily.

Harry was still unconscious. She was tempted to try and get up again – maybe after a bite to eat, she'd go and see what had happened, but… she was too tired. And she wasn't stupid – she would know what had happened if and when Harry woke, and if he didn't… well, then there'd be nothing to go back for.

Too tired to consider the future that would await her if that happened, Horntail closed her eyes, and fell into an exhausted slumber.

She, and maybe he too, dreamed. In the dark room with the cloaked men and women, the circle of stones was completed, it had been for nearly half an year now. It was magnificent, the stones standing proudly and neatly in their places, the capstones forming a perfect circle above. There were markers, there was what looked almost like an altar in the middle, and all the stones were covered, perfectly covered, with symbols, runes, pictograms.

As she slumbered, the cloaked people, wizards and witches, hurried about the circle, anxious and excited.

 

* * *

 

She woke up twice, once because Williamson wanted to force her to eat, and the second time because they wanted her to move, but directly after that she went back to sleep, the time going by faster when she wasn't aware of it. She decided to give it two days, and if Harry wouldn't wake up in that time… well, she wasn't sure what she'd do, then, but one way or the other, she'd wait patiently until then. She wouldn't panic, or act, or react to Berkley's concern, not before then.

It felt a bit like a miracle, when he opened his eyes, for a moment a bit confused and then with some clarity, as instead of the covert grounds, he opened his eyes to see a cloudy sky above his head, and to feel the rocking of the boat. And then the pain struck him, and he groaned.

"Sir? Sir!" the Navy lieutenant asked, leaning over him, part worried and part relieved. "Oh, thank god," the man said, at the sight of Harry more or less alert, and then turned away. He returned with a tin cup, holding it out to Harry. "Water," he explained, and then had to hold Harry's head up for him to drink, and rinse the taste of blood and bile from his mouth.

"Are we… still undetected?" Harry groaned, trying to see past the boat's side, but it was impossible. He was lying on the bottom of it, and for the life of him he couldn't have mustered enough strength to sit up.

"So far, yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "The rain covered our escape, I believe, and though the dragons circled above for some time afterwards, they did not see us. And, during the night, we drifted far enough that even if they kept searching in the vicinity of the _Normandy_ …."

Harry nodded, swallowing dryly and closing his eyes for a moment. Then, the move taking almost all of his energy, he lifted his hand to his stomach. His coat had been spread over him, but at his frown the lieutenant quickly pulled the coat down so that Harry could get his hand onto his skin. The bandage there was hard, dry. The bleeding had stopped and the blood dried, but judging by the feeling of the heat of his skin around the bandage, it wasn't a good thing. "The wound has gotten infected," he muttered, and sighed. How long would that give him, unless he somehow could combat the infection? A week, less?

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said unhappily, probably as aware of the danger of that as he was. "You should probably eat some, sir," he added, turning away and to the bag in which what food they had been given in the haste of their evacuation was kept. "We have biscuit and some bread, as well as some cheese and a bit of dried meat."

"I'll take the meat," Harry said, though he didn't feel at all like eating. Still, he knew better – keeping up his strength was the only way to combat the infection at this point. At least until Horntail would have to chance to try and find them. "How far do you think we drifted from where the _Normandy_ was, Lieutenant?" he asked tiredly, as the lieutenant took the dried meat, and used his knife to cut it into smaller pieces.

"Hard to say, sir. It's been a day and a half now, and we drifted quite a way during the night. At least twenty, thirty miles, though I can't be certain about the direction," the elder soldier said, leaning in to feed Harry by hand. The meat was very dry, and salty on top of it, but Harry forced himself to swallow every piece – and then hold it within him, despite the terrible urge to throw it up again.

The effort nearly knocked him out again, but this time he fought against the darkness tooth and nail, breathing in and out slowly and trying to ignore the pain. "We will be found, Lieutenant," he said then, to the Navy man's hopeless look. "Horntail will find us."

"…Horntail, sir?" the lieutenant asked, uncertain.

"My dragon. Britain's only fire breather," Harry answered, smiling faintly and closing his eyes. "She'll find us."

He didn't hear the lieutenant's answer – too busy forcing his attention to Horntail, and forcing his other body awake. She jolted up with a jerk, blinking her eyes quickly before rolling to her feet, stretching. She was hungry, stiff, tired from too much sleep – her wounds had been bandaged, but they were aching. None of that was important, though.

While her runners cried out, and Berkley bellowed something from the distance, Horntail jumped up and into the air, to start her search for her other body. Smiling faintly on the boat, Harry watched how the buildings and forts of Gibraltar flew past her, as she raced towards the ocean. She could hear dragons crying behind her, someone yelling, and then it was all too far away, left behind.

They'd chase her – of course they would, she was too valuable to be just left like that. Her formation would probably all come after her, maybe some other formations, but they wouldn't be able to stop her, not with her fire. They'd end up just following her, flanking her, as she would begin her search for the Jollyboat.

Opening his eyes again, Harry coughed softly. "Horntail will find us," he said again, while the lieutenant stared at him uncertainly.

"I hope so sir," the man said, not sounding hopeful at all.

Harry kept himself conscious the whole time Horntail raced towards the last place where _Normandy_ had been, some seven British dragons tailing – her old formation, plus a slower Regal Copper and two Winchester couriers. They had decided to keep the tail, after Horntail had threatened to scorch the Winchester who came close enough for his captain to yell at her to turn back, and now followed her as a mostly silent, and definitely disgruntled guard.

 The time went by slowly for Harry, though, in the silence of the rocking jollyboat, with nothing but water and sky in all directions, and the lieutenant having fallen silent in awkward discomfort. Finally, barely hanging onto his awareness, Harry cleared his throat. "Your name is Lawrence, was it?" he asked, trying to remember.

"Laurence, Sir. William Laurence," the Navy man said. "I am the second lieutenant on board the _Normandy_."

"Captain Harry Potter, pleasure to make your acquaintance," Harry answered, waving a hand haphazardly at the man's direction. "Sorry if I don't shake hands, right now."

"That's quite alright, sir," the Navy fellow said, with the weakest of smiles, and then looked at him thoughtfully. "Sir, if you don't mind my curiosity… how old are you?"

Harry laughed breathlessly and then winced – that did not fell at all agreeable. "Sorry, sorry," he said, when the man gave him a faintly insulted look. "All you Navy fellows ask that," he explained. "I'm sixteen." Well, he was _almost_ sixteen, only a few months short of it and it was always better to round upwards than backwards – a fifteen year old in control of a fire breathing heavy weight tended to make people nervous. "It's the scar and the goggles, they make me look older from afar," he explained, pointing at his right cheek where, just next to his ear on his cheekbone, his skin was pinkish and rippled. It wasn't bad, as burn scars went - he could've lost his eye or his ear, if he hadn't been wearing a thick leather hood and goggles when Horntail's fire had grazed him.

"But… sixteen," the lieutenant said. "That is –"

"Young. Yes, I know," Harry answered, closing his eyes. "Dragons don't have age preferences, though, and I've been Horntail's captain for a long while now. I'm not even nearly the youngest captain there ever was, though – there was once a nine year old who was the captain of a Regal Copper, you know."

Lieutenant Laurence swallowed a bit. "Is that common?" he asked, sounding bewildered.

"Not due to our preference, the Aerial Corps would always prefer to have an elder, experienced handler on a beast, especially a combat beast and most definitely with heavyweights. But sometimes there is no choice, and you have to deal with whoever the dragon chooses," Harry said and smiled tiredly.

"I… see," Laurence muttered, shivering a bit. "It must be a hard life, sir."

"No harder than any other sort, Lieutenant," the aviator answered, and gave the Navy officer a thoughtful look. "The Navy must have its difficulties too, and dangers."

"Yes, of course," the lieutenant said. "Though nothing quite like flying on a dragon. At least a ship stays relatively level."

Harry laughed. "You'd be amazed, how many ships you see going very much _not_ level from the back of a fire breathing dragon," he said a bit sadly, thinking of the ships _he_ had destroyed, the people he had killed. It never got easier, to be, in one single swoop, responsible for hundreds of deaths. "Tell me about the Navy," he then said. "The services are much different, I'm sure, and I would like to learn more."

The lieutenant seemed perfectly aware that he wanted the man talk just so that _someone_ was and that Harry would have something to concentrate on, but he did begin speaking. "I joined the Navy when I was twelve," he started. "It wasn't what my parents had planned for me, but I was, I still am, mad for the sea…."

Harry opened and closed his eyes almost mechanically, flying and laying down all at once, wind and the lieutenant's voice washing over him, her. It was just enough to keep him awake, even though the words stopped meaning much after a moment and turned into just general noise, distracting enough to keep him awake. He wondered, though, about the differences between aviators and the Navy men, of serving on board a ship and on board a dragon, how different it must've been.

He kept his eyes on the sun, on the sky, trying to figure out their relative position, just as Horntail reached the approximate location where the _Normandy_ had been taken. There was nothing there, the ships and the dragons having left long ago, and the blank surface of the ocean, unmarked and unremarkable, offered no direction. Harry and Laurence might've drifted any direction, north, south, west, east, any way imaginable, and she had no idea which way to go first – he had no idea which way he was. With no land marks to use, no stars to navigate by, they might've been anywhere

But she wasn't about to give up, and while her escort fluttered about, she set out to search in something like a pattern, going further and further away from the _Normandy_ 's last location. Eventually the other dragons organised into patterns as well, probably just to humour her, and eventually they were searching in a grid, each covering hundreds of yards in their sweeps.

Time passed by, and Harry found it harder and harder to hang onto consciousness. With Laurence's help he drank a bit of water while the lieutenant told him about his first months on sea under the command of a family friend, Captain Mountjoy. Harry even ate a bit of bread, mindlessly chewing and trying to make the motions of eating keep him aware, but he was slipping further and further into a sleepy, tired haze.

"Don't let me fall asleep," Harry groaned, blinking as his eyes grew too blurry to keep track of the sun. "Don't let me…"

"Sir?" Laurence asked after a moment. "Captain Potter?" the man even went as far as to shake him a bit by the shoulder, but it was too late.

Over the ocean, Horntail let out a frustrated cry, as Harry's vision was closed off and the sensation of the jollyboat rocking, the pain, and Lieutenant Laurence's voice just vanished from her awareness. Hissing at herself, himself, she kept on searching – she must be close by now, they couldn't have drifted _that_ far, either her or one of the other dragons must be able to find them.

Minutes of flying stretched into hours, and at her side she could see the other dragons, completing their grids and giving her concerned looks, until finally one of the couriers flew closer – Berkley was sitting behind the Winchester's captain. "Horntail, there is no use! We must go back – it will be dark soon, and if we keep at this, we will have a hard time going back! We must return to the covert!"

Horntail growled in irritation and then spat out a bright hot tongue of flame, just to vent the frustration. So close, and yet… it was like trying to find needle in a haystack. If only Harry could've held on longer, just long enough to see his position by the stars – it wouldn't have been perfectly accurate, but it would've at least given her the right direction to search him in, and yet….

"Horntail, we are all very tired," Profundus said, gasping as he came to her side. "Please. There is no way we can find anything once it gets dark. And you must know, the _Normandy_ must have been captured…."

Glancing at him, Horntail grimaced slightly. Of course it had been taken, she was perfectly aware of that. But Harry hadn't been on it – except they didn't know it, and now thought that her search was pure folly, and a waste of time and resources. And she had no way of properly relaying the information, and even if she could've, there is no way they would've believed. In those circumstances, with Harry injured in such a manner, it was only logical, natural, that he must've stayed on the _Normandy_ and thus gotten himself captured.

"Please," Profundus said pleadingly. "Let us go back. There is no hope."

She didn't want to, but the other dragons were coming, the Regal Copper coming behind her. "Let us go," the regal copper, Validus, rumbled.

Then she had already been surrounded, and couldn't break free from the engaging formation without injuring one or more of her fellow dragons with her fire. With another frustrated sound, she glance down, to the ever darkening surface of the water, and then allowed herself to be led away, and back towards Gibraltar.

There'd be other times, she promised herself as she flew so escorted. It wasn't as if they could chain her down – she would go out again the moment Harry awoke, and she would find him. She would and nothing could stop her; she would bring him and Lieutenant Laurence back.

The dream they shared that night was the clearest they had ever had. The ring of stones was calm, activity was stilled – the cloaked, shadowed wizards and witches surrounded it, and no one was inside the ring. For a moment, all was still, eerie with the silence, the quiet, the lack of movement. The air was tense, electric with excitement and anticipation.

"Alright," someone said, a familiar voice from several other dreams, the speaker being the chief of the group and almost always there. He stood outside the ring as well, his sleeves pulled up – his hands bleeding with wounds, runes very recently carved into his skin and flesh. He wasn't the only one – all their hands were bleeding, some bad enough for there to be puddles of blood on the floor.

The man nodded grimly, and clasped his bleeding hands together. "Let's open the portal."


	11. Part II, Chapter XI

Harry woke up and nothing made sense. The world was tilting, rocking – that was familiar at least, he was still on the boat – but aside from that, everything was off. Someone was standing over him, someone in a blue coat – right, of course Lieutenant Laurence. The man's hands were shaking – he was holding muskets in both hands.

"I don't know what sort of evil spirit conjured you, but should you come one step closer I will fire!" the man growled, and Harry blinked, uncomprehending.

There was an odd feeling in the air. A sort of taste, that he wasn't exactly tasting but feeling with his skin – like metal and blood and something that sparked against his skin, a bit like static electricity. It felt familiar, tasted familiar.

"Now, let's just calm down, I mean nobody any harm," another voice said, and for a moment Harry wondered if he had been the one to speak because… because weren't they in the middle of the ocean, stranded? Horntail hadn't found them, Harry knew as much – she was sleeping in the covert at Gibraltar, dreaming of endless oceans spread about her. So there couldn't be anyone else, unless… had they been found? By whom? The voice hadn't sounded French….

"Mr. Potter?" the speaker said, and Harry turned his head to see… yes, a man, standing just beside the boat. Even in his weakened, feverish state, that made absolutely no sense to the aviator. There was _water_ beside the boat. How could the man be standing there? And why was he wearing a cloak when it was so hot.

"Mr. Potter, are you alert?" the man demanded, and tried to take a step forward, only to have the boat rock as Lieutenant Laurence stepped over Harry.

"Not an inch closer, sir. I warn you," the Navy officer almost growled.

The cloaked man hesitated, looking torn, before staying his ground – his _water?_ – and looking down at Harry. "Mr. Potter, my name is Agnus Croaker. I am from the Department of Mysteries – I work for the Ministry of Magic. For the past seventeen months I have been working with the Celtic site where you vanished, approximately year and half a go."

"What?" Laurence asked, sounding more startled and confused than demanding.

Harry hummed and nodded. Yes, that made sense – that was where the voice was familiar from. He could remember it from his dreams – the cloaked shadowed man who led the others in their reconstruction of the stone ring. "I remember," Harry said faintly and coughed. His mouth felt rusty and dry.

"That's good, that's very good," the man, the _wizard_ said, sounding relieved while Laurence looked between Harry and the cloaked figure uncertainly. Then Agnus Croaker steeled himself. "Mr. Potter, I'm here to bring you home."

Harry blinked, trying to swallow around the rusty taste. They were going to take him back to England? But Horntail was in Gibraltar… no, no, of course not, that wasn't what they meant – they meant take him _back_. Back to the world with magic, and without the Aerial Corps, two hundred years into the future of an alternate reality. Back to the world with Hogwarts and wands, Ron and Hermione and Sirius. God, he didn't even remember what they looked like, not exactly.

"I… have some unfinished business here," Harry said finally, not knowing what else to say. The war, Horntail, his and her crew, their career – his little "inventions" and the business with Mr. Thorpe – and everything else. Go back now? With all of that so unfinished – and Horntail so far away, still so deep asleep?

"Mr. Potter, surely you want to come back home?" Croaker said, trying to take another step forward only to have the lieutenant brandish his pistols with renewed suspicion. The wizard cleared his throat, glancing at the man and then down at Harry. "You're injured, and stranded," he pointed out. "We can heal you."

Harry closed his eyes. There was that – he had seen enough of this world to know how serious injuries were here. His own… well, even if there had been a surgeon or a physician to take care of him, his chances wouldn't have been that good, not with the infection, and whatever internal damage he had. Not to mention the fever. But… but home? _This_ was home, _England_ was home – Dover covert was home, Loch Laggan was home. _Horntail was home_. Not… not that place. Not in a long while.

"I'm no healer, Mr. Potter, but even I can see that you're not doing too well," Croaker said and glanced around. "And stranded here… how good do you think your chances of survival are?"

Poor Lieutenant Laurence, no doubt more confused than he had ever been in his life, looked between Harry and Croaker, lips pressed into a thin line, not saying a thing. Harry looked up at him, then down at his own stomach, the bandages there, covered in dark, dry blood.

He was dying. There was little doubt about that.

Swallowing again, Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He didn't want to go, but he didn't want to die either. "Can I… can I come back?" he asked a little wistfully, thinking of his crew, of Horntail – what would happen, if one of them was here, and another there? Would they be cut off, would they die – one of them at least? Or would they still be connected, somehow? His mind wouldn't turn properly, he couldn't quite imagine it.

Croaker hesitated, looking like he hadn't been expecting that request at all. "Well… we have the portal repaired and functional. It can be opened again," he admitted slowly. "Though it does take some... effort," he added, and glanced down at his hands – covered in blood, dripping.

 Harry nodded and opened his eyes. The sky above was a blurry mass of blue with specks of white. The dull, throbbing pain of his stomach echoed in his head. He felt like throwing up, like plunging into the water at the jollyboat's side – and a little bit like dying. "Alright," he said tiredly. "Alright. Lieutenant," he added, reaching up with a shaking hand, touching the Navy man's breeches. "Stand – stand down. Please."

"But sir," the man objected nervously, the pistols in his hands quivering a bit.

"It's okay," Harry said, though he wasn't sure if it was. He turned to Croaker, blinking tiredly. "What about the Lieutenant?" he asked.

Croaker hesitated, looking at Laurence with thoughtful look. "I cannot help him," he said finally. "I am limited to the range of the portal, and can't send him anywhere – and there is a bend to this world, that doesn't work well with magic. I wouldn't trust a Portkey, here."

Portkey – oh yes, one of those things they had taken to the Quidditch World Cup. It felt like eons ago. "Then bring him with us," Harry said, his eyes slipping shut. The decision made, his strength was slipping away now. He felt so tired. "Saved my life. Don't… don't leave him…."

And then all was darkness again.

 

* * *

 

Horntail woke with start lifting her head with eyes wide, her breath coming in a shocked wheeze. In a moment, she was on her feet, turning her head this way and that, trying to feel, trying to sense – but no.

Harry was gone. Completely gone – there was no emptiness there, no dreams, nothing, not even that familiar feeling of being one in two, the feeling of _lacking_ her other body. It was just her and her alone.

"Horntail?" a voice called at her, and she turned to face Berkley, who was hurriedly coming to her way. "Horntail, now, don't start going off again on your own – we have patrols searching the area already, you don't need to exert yourself –"

Horntail shook her head, ignoring him and the rest of the crew, and instead lifting her head, trying all she could to _feel_ , to _sense_. Even when Harry was unconscious, she was still aware of the other body, in an odd, distant way, aware of the potential, familiar with the feel of being _two_ , but even that was gone. It was almost… almost like he had never been there, like it had always been just her and there was no way on this earth or any other that she could be _two_ , instead of one. She hadn't even realised that she could feel it, but now the ability shone with its clear absence.

She keened softly, uncomfortable, and withdrew into herself. The feeling was… queer, hollow. She felt _small_ inside her skin, small and crowded all at the same time, and so cut off. Blind and deaf and mute.

"Horntail? Horntail, what is the matter? Do you feel ill?" Berkley asked, coming to her side as she lowered her head, very much wanting to tuck it beneath her wing. Cautious, the man placed a hand on her snout, running his fingers across the ridges of her cheekbone. "Come now, old girl. I'm sure your captain is alright…."

Horntail huffed a breath that was almost panicked. Alright? Harry was _gone_. Harry was gone, and she was what, a human mind trapped in the body of a mute dragon? She could make sounds, of course, but what use were those when no one understood them in the least? What would happen to her now? She couldn't work in the Aerial Corps like this, without a way to communicate – even if she would be perfectly willing, it wouldn't be the same without having Harry's body to talk for her. She had lost himself and her work in one fell swoop, and what was left?

Horntail keened with panicked frustration, and Berkley quickly kneeled by her head, trying to comfort her. "There, there, old girl," the big man said, petting her gently. "It's alright, everything will be alright. How about you eat something? You haven't had much to eat in the past days. It ought to bring your spirits right up. Brasher!" he then called. "Get her some roast!"

She didn't feel like eating, didn't feel like doing much. All the plans they had made, all the concerns – they meant nothing, now that she was here, alone, and without a way to _talk_. They had thought that it would be relatively easy – if one of them would survive, then _they_ would survive, one and all, except… it wasn't the same, of course not. They thought differently – their minds were different, a fact which was proven over and over when one slept and another was awake. Harry had a better mind for details, and Horntail for the big picture. And the details here didn't matter.

God, and the Aerial Corps thought the French had Harry. If they could, they would chain Horntail down, in an attempt to stop her from going to him - which she obviously never would. Or maybe it would never come to that – the Admiralty would rather try and make her believe he was dead – and then what? The attempt to put a new captain on her would fail, she wouldn't be able to work like that, without that bond. Unable to talk or answer, she'd either be force to follow every order of her new captain, or ignore them all, and she doubted she could follow an order she did not like, when she was so used to have Harry be the one to issue the orders. And like this, she wouldn't know all – she wouldn't be aware of the minute shifts and changes of her crew, of all the signals of her formations, of all the minute details that Harry took in while she handled major things, the fighting, the leading.

No, she couldn't even think of answering to a captain that wasn't Harry, the very thought made her hide crawl. And then what? Without Harry, without her captain and a way to continue working in the Aerial Corps, the potential of her body was all that was left. Not in a sense of fighting and warring, but in future generations.

It would be to the breeding grounds with her.

Horntail keened again, and closed her eyes. And worse yet, she didn't know if Harry was dead or if the separation between realities had severed them from each other. She shouldn't have agreed to go with Croaker. She shouldn't have, she shouldn't have… better to die and know it, than to be so uninformed. Better to know, than be left behind in ignorance like this.

"Horntail?" Berkley asked, petting her above her right eye, and she forced her eyes open. Brasher and Johnson were there, with a hand pushed cart with them – in it were various juicy bits of what looked like two separate cows, all brilliantly roasted and grilled. They smelled wonderful and her mouth watered, despite all the feelings and anxieties churning inside her.

"Eat something, old girl. Potter wouldn't want you to starve yourself like this," her first lieutenant said, looking at her worriedly.

"We even put in a dash of salt and pepper in," Brasher offered hopefully, holding out a leg and yes, she could smell it.

"Eat a little, at least," Berkley coaxed, taking the leg and holding it close to her nose.

Letting out another keening noise, Horntail opened her jaws and ate.

They didn't talk about it near her – only said that Harry wasn't there, that they were looking for him, but judging by the looks they exchanged between them, her crew already thought Harry lost – just as they might. She could hear the jingle of chains near by, and around mid day, two Regal Coppers took to lounging about her clearing – Laetificat, who had been stationed at Gibraltar just a month ago, and another, older Regal whose name was Iustinia. There to make sure she wouldn't fly off again.

But she wouldn't, she didn't have the mental strength to try. Harry wouldn't be there anyway, so it was no use.

Instead, she lowered her head, and breathed, just breathed, and hoped that soon she would have some idea about what to do. Harry was the better one in coming up with ideas, he had the right brain for it – whilst she was better with solutions to problems, choosing between difficult options. But this was too big, and she couldn't think.

She had no idea what to do.

With a tired, despairing sigh, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke up with a gasp, and very nearly choked onto the potion a woman leaning over him was feeding him. "Easy, easy, Mr. Potter. Just calm down and swallow. It's something to help you along the healing process," she said, and as he stared up at her – green robes, hat holding back her blonde hair, a soothing expression on her plump face – she offered him the bottle again. Not knowing what else to do, he swallowed.

It tasted foul.

"Where – where am I?" he demanded to know, sitting up before he could think better of it – and then realising with shock that nothing hurt. Looking down quickly, he lifted the hem of the pyjama shirt someone had put on him, and saw that his stomach was perfectly healed – with only the slightest of scars where the bullet had gone in.

"You're in St. Mungos, Mr. Potter – you were brought here about four hours ago, with a puncture wound in your stomach," the healer said, pulling up a chair and sitting beside his bed. "We repaired the damage, of course, and dealt with the infection and the fever. If there is any lingering discomfort, it should pass soon," she explained and smiled. "My name is Herta Honeycutt, I'm a senior healer here at St. Mungos," she added.

"Oh. Your servant, Madam Honeycutt, and thank you," Harry answered awkwardly, oddly rankled by _Mr._ Potter, and uneasily lowered the hem of the shirt. Then he looked around, waiting for his mind to catch up with him.

He had been… Horntail just now, in Gibraltar covert, thinking he was dead. But he wasn't? And he couldn't feel her, any more she had been able to feel him – and yet, he could remember what she had thought, done, how Berkley had fed her. So, they weren't separate, even though it felt like they were. Frowning, he tried to concentrate, tried to force his other body into wakefulness, but… there was nothing there. Not even an echo.

He felt as alone in his flesh, as she had, as trapped, as cut off.

"Mr. Potter? Are you alright – do you feel any pain?" the healer asked, making him turn to face her.

"No, I feel perfectly hearty," Harry answered awkwardly and frowned. "Can you tell me who brought me here, madam?" he then asked, trying to make sense of things.

"Ah yes, that would be Chief Croaker," the healer said and frowned a bit. "He has been waiting outside for some time now, and he is not alone, though we have told him all the rest firmly that he cannot see you until we are absolutely certain you will have no complications."

"Will I?" the aviator asked, shifting back to lean against the headboard of the bed.

"So far, you seem to be taking to the potions well enough, but you are still under observation, and we do not want you jostled or excited," the healer said with a grim expression.

"I promise I will be perfectly calm," Harry said quickly and then frowned. "What do you mean, all the rest? Who else is there?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore, the Minister, quite a few reporters, and who knows who else," Healer Honeycutt said with disproving scowl. "It has been a practical madhouse all morning, ever since you arrived, Mr. Potter, though of course none of that is your fault. I have not been able to send them off, however, they are all certain you will wish to see them first thing. I will be able to tell them otherwise now."

"No, please, can I see Mr. Croaker?" Harry quickly injected, before the woman could stand and do just what she intended. "I have many questions for him," he added a bit hopelessly, as she turned her scowl at him.

The healer hesitated and then scowled a bit darker. "Only, if you take a calming potion," she said. "I don't want you excited or disturbed in any manner."

Harry frowned, not remembering if he had ever been given a calming potion, and how it felt like. Would it affect his thinking? He needed his wits about him. "How does a calming potion affect a person?" he asked suspiciously. "Will it affect my capability for rational thought?"

"No, not in the least – in fact, most people find that it is easier to think under calming potions. Less emotional disturbances and excitement," the woman assured, and after a moment of hesitation Harry acquiesced. He was given the potion, which was infinitely better tasting than the one he had been initially given, and its effect was much clearer.

"Very well, you will have your visitor," Healer Honeycutt said, while Harry marvelled how much sense things suddenly seemed to make, when the confusion and fear bled away, leaving him calm and oddly comforted. "But if I hear any disturbances, that will be the end of it."

"I will be as calm as I ever may, I assure you," Harry said obediently, and then waited as the woman left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. But, when she didn't return instantly, he relaxed a bit, and leaned back, letting out a breath.

Everything still felt rather like a dream – or maybe a nightmare about to turn bad – even with his emotions level and settled. The room around him was certainly nothing he'd ever see back… back _home_. Everything was so polished, so clean, so sterile – and so foreign. The design of the gurney that sat beside his, so mechanical. The floor, the ceiling, the curtains, the window, all of such… _futuristic_ design, in comparison what he knew.

He had never thought of the magical world as being in any way time appropriate – to his young eyes, everything had always seemed a little stuck in the past as far as the magical world went, clothing, the design of things, everything, especially when compared to the muggle world and it's advancements. But in comparison to what he had gotten used to back home… yes, futuristic was the only right word. Futuristic and advanced and foreign.

And worse yet, there was a painting hanging on a wall nearby, of a field of grass. The grass was flowing in unseen, unheard wind, the clouds idly moving across the painted scenery. He had forgotten that magical paintings moved.

It seemed almost impossible.

Harry wasn't sure how long he stared at the moving painting mindlessly, when the door was opened and the healer held it ajar for the cloaked figure to enter. "Mr. Potter," Croaker said, smiling and pushing the hood down. He was a handsome elderly man, with short black hair greying at the temples, and with eyes as sharp as a cutlass. "It is good to see that you've recovered."

"Mr. Croaker," Harry nodded slowly, frowning a bit at the man's address of him, and then glanced at the Healer who quietly left them alone, closing the door behind her.

"I imagine you have questions," the man said then, taking the chair and sitting down.

"Endless amounts," Harry agreed a little helplessly, not knowing where to start.

"Well, let's hope we can shed some light onto the matter. Do you know what happened to you?" the man asked, looking at him keenly.

"Well…" Harry frowned. He hadn't thought of his entrance to the other reality much lately, too busy with his duties and the war, but he remembered well enough. "It was the first task of the Tri-wizard tournament. Horntail and I were fighting and we crashed through the forbidden forest, into a sort of ring of stones, which activated and sent us to the alternate reality," he said. "I, uh. I saw my mother, somewhere in between. She… said she would try to ensure my survival, I think. I'm afraid I don't remember all of it."

"Hm…" Croaker said, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Well, it would confirm some of our observations. What happened is that the raw magic between you and the Hungarian Horntail, as well as the dragon's blood, did indeed activate the old magic of the site, which sent you out of this reality, and into another one. How much do you know about alternate realities, Mr. Potter?"

"Not much, and…" Harry hesitated before frowning. "It's _Captain_ Potter," he said firmly.

"Excuse me?"

"It's Captain Potter, not Mr.," the aviator said. Though he had gotten the title more by accident than anything else, he had worked hard to earn the respect and authority it commanded, and the idea of being reduced to a civilian here, even if the world was different, didn't appeal to him much. He was _proud_ of his service.

Croaker blinked and then nodded slowly. "Alright then, Captain Potter," he said and then seemed to compose himself. "Well. We at the Department of Mysteries don't know everything there is to know about alternate universes or realities, all we know that there are several and that they exist most often in parallel to ours. The Celts knew quite bit more about them than we do, actually – the site you crashed in was used as a means of travelling between realities, possibly used as means of trading between worlds. Either that, or it was how Druids communicated with other worlds."

"Yes, which would explain how Horntail and I were thrown into an alternate reality," Harry nodded. "You fixed the site, I assume. Or the ring of stones, at least."

"Yes, naturally. It took quite bit of time and effort, and we are still not completely aware of all the details and intricacies of the stones and their powers, but we can use it now," Croaker said. "However, we only found you due to the fact that your magic was still bound to the stones – it created a sort of pathway and locked the circle of stones into that particular reality and that particular time, so we were able to backtrack it to you. Your magic is still bound, in fact. Tell me, M – Captain Potter, could you perform magic in the other world?"

Harry frowned and shook his head. "I must confess, I never tried," he admitted. "I… cannot quite explain it, but it didn't occur to me that it would be possible. Not only did I not have a wand or any other sort of magical medium, but… I didn't feel the slightest urge to make the attempt."

Croaker nodded. "That works with our theories too. Your magic was bound already – you couldn't have managed a spell even if you’d had all the wands in the world, and you probably knew that subconsciously. Do you feel the urge now?"

Harry considered it and shook his head, though he wasn't sure if it was the lack of practice or just the disinclination speaking there. Still, he couldn't help but think all those times when magic might've been useful, when it might've come in handy, and not once had it come to his mind. When his first signal ensign Brent, a steady lad he had been very sad to lose, had fallen – when Horntail's fire had accidentally burned one of the bellmen to death. When Hortensia had taken a bomb nearly full on her wing, and almost never recovered.

It was probably better that it hadn't occurred to him. He couldn't even imagine the disappointment and bitterness now, if he had made the attempt, and failed.

"You wouldn't be able to now anymore than you could before. You and your magic are still bound to the other reality, though we are uncertain why or how, seeing that you are now in your own, original reality once more," Croaker said. "You still have magic, but it is… preoccupied in maintaining that connection."

"That makes sense. I could sometimes see the circle of stones in my dreams, and how you worked at it," Harry murmured, shaking the thought of magic from his head and turning his mind to Horntail, to his connection to his other body.

Croaker nodded in agreement. "Now, we can severe that connection, but it's something we need your approval –"

"I forbid it," Harry snapped, without even needing to think. His words took the man aback a bit, and Croaker looked at him with something like shock. "No," the aviator said firmly. "Do nothing to damage that bond. Do not tamper with it in any way."

"But Mr. Potter – _Captain_ ," Croaker corrected himself awkwardly. "So as long as that bond remains, you will be incapable of performing magic."

"I have not been performing magic for a year and half now, you may trust me when I say that I will not miss it. I will miss the bond quite a bit more," Harry answered, thinking of Horntail, his heart skipping a fearful beat just at the thought of actually being severed from her. It had been bad enough to think herself severed before, he did not want to repeat the experience. "Do nothing to the bond."

Croaker looked plainly displeased with that, but he nodded. "Very well," he said, and Harry relaxed a bit.

"So, that is how you brought me back," the aviator said, after a moment of awkward quiet. "Why did you do it, though?"

"I'm sorry?" the man asked, confused.

"Why did you bring me back?" Harry asked. "It must've taken considerable effort, and the way you reconstructed the stones couldn't have been cheap. Why go through all that effort?"

"Oh, I see," Croaker said and straightened his back. "Well, Captain Potter, I am not quite certain if I am the right person to explain this to you, but…. Well, firstly we studied the ring of stones only due to professional interest, but later we have had a more serious cause for it. Since your disappearance, some things have occurred in this reality. Namely, the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," the man said, trailing away and looking carefully at Harry, at his reaction.

"Voldemort is back?" Harry asked, confused. "You mean, he is back completely. Corporeally, rather than as a wraith?"

"Yes. He regained his body in May of nineteen ninety five, and though he had been keeping relatively quiet since then, the effects of his return and actions have been felt," Croaker explained. "War is imminent."

"I see," the aviator said slowly, considering it. Then he shook his head. "I don't see how this concerns me, however," he said. He was the Boy Who Lived, sure, but that made him nothing more than a suitable target for Voldemort's rage. "Surely the time you spent in repair of the stone ring could've been used more productively, in preparation for the war."

"Ah. Yes, well… there is something you do not know, I see," Croaker said, grimacing. "I suppose no one ever explained to you why you were targeted by the Dark Lord when you were a child? No, I guess not. Well, Captain… there was a Prophesy, that named you and the Dark Lord," he said, a little awkwardly. "You do know what a Prophesy is, I hope?"

"I have studied divination," Harry nodded slowly, frowning. "I was named in a Prophesy? In what manner?"

"As the man with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord," Croaker said almost apologetically. "Since the Department became aware of the Dark Lord's return, the Prophesy was re-examined and… well, your return took priority to all our other projects, after that."

"I see," Harry said expressionlessly, not sure what he was supposed to think about it. He had gotten more adjusted to the way of thinking of the other world – where his worth was in how well he led his men, how steady his gun hand was, how neat his fencing and, more importantly, how powerful his dragon was. This sort of… ethereal worth didn't quite register.

"It is lot to take in, I understand. However, know that you have the full support of the Department of Mysteries, and I am under the impression that the Ministry itself will most likely back you up in any way they can. Also, I am sure you now understand why it is so important for that connection to the other world to be severed so that your magic –"

Harry held up his hand to silence the man. He didn't quite understand it all, yet, it was happening too soon, but he understood enough. They wanted – no, they needed – his co-operation. They had brought him back with the clear intention of having him fight Voldemort. "If you want my co-operation, you will not touch the bond," he said firmly.

"But your magic –"

"To hell with my magic. Leave the bond be," Harry snapped and then thought furiously. A wizarding war. God, he couldn't even _think_ that way anymore, in terms of magic and secrecy and dark wizards and their threats. He was much more used to concepts like fleets and formations and entire countries at the throats of each other – of nations falling to each other’s rule, and to naval forces, racing across oceans. What was wizarding world? A cluster of hidden corners.

He blinked and then looked up. "Where is Lieutenant Laurence?" he asked, suddenly remembering the naval officer who had helped him escape from the capture of the _Normandy_.

"Oh. He is still in Department of Mysteries – I am afraid we had to… restrain him a bit," Croaker said uncomfortably. "He got violent when we had you brought to St. Mungos, and it was the only way to calm him down."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "He is not hurt, is he?" he demanded to know.

"No, of course not. Just out cold," Croaker assured him and then shifted a bit uncomfortable. "He's a _muggle_ , Captain Potter," he then said, like an explanation or a plea.

"Yes, I know, but he saved my life and as far as I can tell, he's a good soldier and an honourable man," Harry said leaning back a bit, thinking, thinking. Called back to fight Voldemort in the magical world. He supposed he wouldn't be allowed back home, not before he dealt with the threat here, not when these people had gone through so much trouble in the first place. His mind was spinning, but it was calming down now that he had a clear idea about what was going on. Or as clear as it could be, with just the bare basics of the situation.

"I suppose you wouldn't be willing to just forget this, and let me and the Lieutenant go home?" he asked, at which Croaker's eyes widened. "Go back to the other world, I mean," Harry elucidated.

"Go back? Why in Merlin's name would you want to?"

"Many reasons. Would you let us?" Harry asked, turning his eyes to the man steadily. "Would you, Mr. Croaker?"

The unspeakable hesitated and then pressed his lips firmly together, not saying a thing.

"I thought as much," the aviator sighed. "If… if I take this task and somehow defeat Voldemort," he said slowly. "Then will you open the portal again and return me to the other world?"

Croaker eyed him silently for a long moment. "I don't see why you would want to go back," he said slowly. "It's a magicless world, as far as we can tell. Magicless and violent, judging by what I've seen it so far."

"Regardless. If I do it, and succeed, will you return me? And Lieutenant Laurence?" Harry asked.

The chief of the Department of Mysteries frowned and then shook his head. "I am not saying no," he said at Harry's scowl. "It is not something I can promise, though. You will have to make that deal with the Minister of Magic – if he agrees to it, then yes, we can and we will do it," he said.

"Get the Minister then," Harry said determinately. "Madam Honeycutt said the Minister was outside, I believe. Get him, and we'll make a deal."

Croaker looked a bit awkward, but he did go out and bring in the Minister. Cornelius Fudge was a changed man from what Harry remembered him to be like – the man had lost weight and he had bruises beneath his eyes, as if he hadn't been sleeping in weeks – his hair had gone almost completely grey. "Mr. Potter," the man said, almost rushing to Harry's bed side. "Please, let me be the first to welcome you back home and tell you what a pleasure and relief it is to have you back."

"Minister Fudge," Harry said, shaking the man's hand a bit uneasily – he couldn't remember much about the man, but what he remembered wasn't good. "I understand you have something of a situation in your hands, with Voldemort. Chief Croaker has explained me the reason you went to such lengths to bring me back."

Wincing a bit at the mention of Voldemort's name, Fudge nodded. "Well, yes," he said. "I know it must seem quite bewildering, but let me assure you that the Ministry will be supporting you ever step of the way. Regardless of whatever Chief Croaker has told you, the situation isn't quite so dire, and the Magical Law Enforcement has things quite under control."

"Do they?" Harry asked glancing at Croaker who shook his head.

"Of course, of course. Now, my boy," Fudge started. "Firstly it is important that you recover from your horrible ordeal. In the meantime, the Ministry is quite willing to look after your affairs and well being – though let me assure you, there is nothing to be worried about. We will have an Auror guard on you at all times and --"

"Minister," Harry said, cutting in and stopping the nervous chatter. Auror guard? No, he couldn't let the man get too far ahead of himself and of Harry and make decisions he didn't agree with – Harry needed to keep control of things, or he would lose the deal he wanted before it could be even spoken about. "I was under the impression that I was brought here to fight Lord Voldemort. That there was a Prophesy naming me. Am I mistaken?"

"No, I am afraid the Prophesy does indeed exist," Fudge admitted, glancing at Croaker.

"And it names me in what manner?" Harry asked, turning to Croaker as well.

"The precise wording is that you have the power to vanquish the dark lord," Croaker said. "And that the dark lord will mark you as his equal, which he obviously already has, via the scar. And there is also mention about power the dark lord knows not – I can get you the full transcript."

"I would be most grateful," Harry said, and turned to Fudge. "So, it is I who has to fight Voldemort. And I am the only one who can defeat him, or _vanquish_ him."

The Minister twitched nervously. "Well… yes, that is the word of the Prophesy," he agreed. "However the Ministry is quite willing, quite willing to do whatever it –"

Harry nodded and cut in. "I have conditions," he said, and by the looks of the Minister's face, completely pulled the rug from beneath the man's feet. Harry smiled. "Two of them," he added.

"But… _Mr. Potter_!" the Minister gasped, as if admonishing a misbehaving child. "This is a serious matter –"

"Yes, it is. And I have conditions," Harry said calmly, with no intention of letting the man shout or sputter him down. He had dealt with petty officials and slighted officers far too long to be talked down to – and even if he was young, even if his service so far hadn't been long, his and Horntail's record was fierce and bloody and had forced him to grow quickly into his position. He wouldn't be _berated_ like a lowly cadet.

"You pulled me here with only the scantest of agreements from me," he said, before Fudge could put a word in between. "An agreement drawn from me under duress with no mention of your actual purpose. You cannot possibly think that I will blindly agree to your whims. No. I am not a child, regardless of my age, _sir_. I am a soldier, not a school boy."

While the Minister sputtered in outrage and confusion Harry held up his hand. "My first condition is that I am under my own command, whatever happens. I will follow the commands of a suitable superior officer, if there is one, but my actions on the battle field are my own and beyond reproach so as long as they further the cause of ending the war here. That is what I am accustomed to, and that is how I function," he said firmly. "Secondly, once Voldemort is defeated and the war over, you will return me to the other world – myself and Lieutenant Laurence, whom I wish under my command and my protection during our stay here."

"What? Go back?" Fudge asked, wide eyed.

"Those are my conditions," Harry said, keeping his voice level. "I will not comply with any of your wishes before I have those conditions agreed upon and the agreement signed – a magical contract, if you will. I have not forgotten the Tri-wizard tournament, and my unwitting participation in it. I want this done legally and magically."

He wasn't entirely sure if such agreements could even be made, but it was a gamble he was glad to play. While Fudge shared a shocked, bewildered look with Croaker, Harry waited patiently, a skill won hard in battle and in the rigors of the politics of the Admiralty and the Aerial Corps. Where he might've been giving and lenient in the beginning, he had lost it long ago – it was either that to bend to every whim of those around him. Everyone had wanted their piece of Horntail, after all, especially after she had become as successful a combat dragon as had she become. _Everyone_.

"Very well," Fudge finally said, awkward and uncomfortable, but probably sensing that Harry was fully willing and capable of waiting for him to bend. "I will have the contract drawn."

"Not before I find a solicitor or some other specialist of magical law," Harry said firmly, making the Minister grimace a bit. The aviator smiled faintly at that, and at the unpleasant look the Minister gave him. He wasn't sure what the man had been expecting, but he wasn't quite it.

 

* * *

 

The healers chased both Croaker and the Minister out soon after, so that they could perform some checks and tests on Harry. The wound was healed, but the tissue was, according to them, still very thin and he shouldn't be moving at least for the next day or so.

"I won't move a muscle, I promise," Harry said the Healer Honeycutt, as the woman fussed over him. "However, I would very much like the man I arrived with to be brought here, if it is at all possible. Lieutenant Laurence."

"Now, Mr. Potter, you really shouldn't –"

" _Captain_ Potter, and seeing visitors isn't going to exhaust me, not when all I am doing is lying in a bed. It is going to tire me quite a bit quicker, being anxious about the man's whereabouts and well being," Harry said, giving the woman as plaintive look as he could manage. "He is a Muggle from the other world, and must be quite confused and perhaps frightened. Please. It is because of me he is here, and as such he is my responsibility."

The woman tsk'd and tutted, but after he had asked her some half a dozen times, she finally went to make the call to the Ministry. Whether there was still a crowd of people, eager to see Harry, he didn't know – nor did he particularly feel like finding out. He still wasn't completely recovered – even if his wounds were mostly healed and his fever gone, he was still weak and tired and in no hurry to engage in another verbal battle with someone else, be it reporter or the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Now that things were a bit calmer, he let himself relax and think things through.

Magical war. He would need to learn more, somehow – surely someone from the Ministry could inform him, he would need to ask for such an informant when he talked next with Croaker or Fudge, or whoever else came. What he could do without magic, he didn't know, but he had an advantage he knew very well most wizards did not – the military training, and year's worth of near constant fighting behind him. He was a fighting captain, and a decent formation leader too, now that he knew his business. That, if nothing else, would give him an advantage, especially if he would manage to get a crew, or some sort of squad under his command.

And if not, then he would figure something else.

Turning his head a bit, he faced the moving painting once more. He had forgotten so much about magic, in the rigors of his service and the war in the other world – and he didn't know how magical wars were fought. He remembered, vaguely, the three unforgivable curses, the killing curse, the torture curse and the mind-control curse. If he would be against that… well, in a way, it would be no different from what he was accustomed to.

Firearms and cannons were as lethal and more as the killing curse, and torture was a sadly common part of the war – and corporal punishment part of the service, something he would never get used to. One of his own service men had had to be flogged once, for a serious breach of etiquette when they were on board a dragon transport, and it had been one of the hardest parts of his duties, even if a necessary one. And of course, there was control – a dragon could be controlled by wielding the life of its captain. Harry had seen beasts taken that way, meek as anything while their captains were held in gunpoint. It was probably not the same thing, not in the slightest, but there were similarities.

And of course, there were other things in magic, things he had not only forgotten but never known in the first place. He remembered a bit of combat magic, but not much, not enough, and didn't know how a serious, mortal battle between groups of magicians could go. He would need to find that out as well, and adjust his thinking to it. He would not have magic, and he wasn't particularly bothered by the loss, but it would put him at a disadvantage, until he knew the limits of spells, and their advantages. In a battle between a firearm and a spell, which would win? Another thing to figure out.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and relaxed for a moment, neither sleeping nor dozing, but letting his mind wander to things he hadn't considered in what felt like ages. When he opened his eyes again, it was to a knock at the door. Healer Honeycutt opened without waiting for an answer, and let in a decidedly confused and bleary looking Lieutenant Laurence, still dressed in his wrinkled and salt-splattered blue coat, though his hair had come loose from it's short queue and his neck cloth had come untied.

"He's been stunned and confounded," the healer said, while ushering the mindlessly obedient man into the empty bed beside Harry's, stretching him out. "I'll get a stimulant to bring him back to his senses."

"Thank you," Harry said, sighing deeply and giving the Navy officer a sympathetic and a guilty look. Confudus wasn't something he remembered ever experiencing, but he could very well imagine the reason for it – for the poor fellow it must've had quite the shock, to be brought through from one world to another. Especially since the man had no doubt objected furiously against it every step of the way, and then made a fuss on the other side, uncomprehending and fearful in his confusion.

"I am sorry," Harry offered, while Laurence stared at nothing in particular, not listening to him. "It is a rotten thing to do, but I could not leave a good man behind, when I am indebted and knew your chances of survival to be better on this side. Even with the water and food, there was no telling what the future might have brought for you, if there were storms ahead." It wasn't much of an apology, especially considering how much worse things were about to get, but Harry promised himself he'd look after the lieutenant. It would be his first and foremost duty, even, as he was the one responsible of the lieutenant's situation.

Hopefully, the Navy man wouldn't make that duty more difficult than it was already going to be.

Honeycutt returned soon after, carrying a potion with her. Laurence drank it with the same mindless compliance he had done everything else, and then as Honeycutt stepped back to wait, awareness returned to the man's eyes. The man blinked, looked around him in confusion, staring for a long, uncomprehending moment at the healer, and finally his eyes found Harry. "Captain Potter?" he asked, uncertain,

"Hello, Lieutenant," Harry answered with a faint, guilty smile. "Please stay calm. Everything is under control," he added, when the Navy officer made to get up.

"Sir," the man started, but didn't seem to find the proper way to continue, his eyes going between Harry and Honeycutt, who watched them curiously. "Sir… what is going on?"

"Healer?" Harry asked, glancing at the woman. "If you would please excuse us?"

"So as long as you promise not to exert yourself," the woman said sternly, and smoother her hands over the hems of her robes. "I will have some food brought in. For the, hm, Lieutenant, as well?"

"That would be most excellent, thank you," Harry said with a nod and waited until she was gone before pushing himself carefully into a seated position and turning to face the lieutenant, whose eyes had now found the moving painting and were staring at it in sort of blank incomprehension.

"Lieutenant," Harry said, drawing the man's attention back to him. "First I would like to say how very sorry I am. This is going to be very confusing for you, and frightening. I want you to know that I will do all in my power to make sure that you are comfortable, safe and that eventually you can return home."

"Return…? Sir, where are we?" Laurence asked, his voice not quite faint, but not full either. "What… was it a dream? It couldn't have been real, but…" he looked around, and his eyes found the moving painting again.

"It was real," Harry promised him. "Tell me, what do you remember? We were on the boat and a man appeared – Croaker. I lost consciousness soon after. What happened?"

Laurence swallowed, and then sat up slowly, turning to face him – though he didn't look at Harry and turned his eyes to the floor, looking a little flushed like he was embarrassed to be called to account. "Sir, I… cannot quite believe it myself, I cannot trust what I saw and experienced was real," he said uncomfortably.

"Tell me anyway," Harry said, putting just slightly more force to his words, so that they were a command and not a request.

The lieutenant's back stiffened a bit, and then he spoke. "The man stood upon the waves like… like they were nothing but smooth ground beneath his feet," he said, paling and Harry could very well imagine why - it was no doubt just hair's width away from heresy just to speak the words, for the poor man. "After you lost consciousness, the man said to me that he might as well, since it was your request, and then…" he swallowed. "I cannot explain it. It felt as if I fell, through the boat and the ocean both, endlessly."

Harry frowned, trying to imagine it. His entry to his second reality had been violent and he didn't know how it had happened exactly. There had been an impact and he had lost consciousness – and woken up very strangely. "And then?" he asked.

"I found myself on a stone floor in a darkened hall, with you, sir, lying at my side. We were surrounded by columns of stone, and –" the lieutenant said, cutting off his own words and frowning, shaking his head. "There were people about, people in robes and cloaks – they came forward to pick you up and I am afraid I reacted without thinking."

Harry nodded, rubbing a hand over his stomach. "Understandable, Lieutenant," he said, thinking. "Is there anything else?"

"I… must have lost consciousness, sir, I cannot quite remember. No, I remember people talking, but their words did not make sense," the Navy officer said, frowning. "And I remember fire, green fire, around me. Then… I was here."

Harry hummed in understanding and nodded again. How long had the poor man been confounded? He didn't even want to know. "There is an explanation for all of this, Lieutenant," he said slowly. "But I am afraid it is going to be quite confusing."

The lieutenant said nothing for a moment, but he raised his eyes at last from the floor. "Sir?" he asked, sounding lost. "You… do not think I hallucinated everything?"

"No. It was all real. I am sorry," the aviator sighed. "And it's only the beginning."


	12. Part II, Chapter XII

The moment Harry fell asleep, exhausted after having spent hours trying to explain the situation to Laurence in terms that did not have the man staring at him as if he was a lunatic or joking, Horntail awoke. It was no less disorienting than it had been the first time, going from Horntail's wakefulness to Harry's wakefulness, but she was better prepared for it this time.

Stretching her neck, she groaned softly – or as softly as some twenty one ton dragon could. She felt as if she had slept for ages, and in the most uncomfortable position imaginable. Had she been asleep precisely as long as Harry had been awake – and did it work in reverse? That would get complicated before long, especially if they only could work like that, in a seesaw fashion – one asleep and one awake, and never managing to do anything at the same time.

The bond between them, however it worked, must've been under strain thanks to the separation. She would need to talk about it with Croaker once she was Harry again, though… maybe not. Croaker, as far as she knew, wasn't aware of the duality, and Horntail wasn't entirely sure if it was safe to let the man know. Though, maybe, it would be somewhat useful if the man could bring Horntail through as well, but on the other hand… he would need to get Horntail from the middle of a very busy covert and a town, and who knew what it would do to the connection between worlds.

And what would Horntail do in the other world? Best case scenario, she'd be sent to a Dragon Sanctuary, and she didn't care much for that notion – it was even less appealing than life in the breeding grounds. Dragons of that world were mindless, after all, and even if Horntail was more or less mute, she still liked the company of other dragons. Or other living, intelligent, amiable beings in general.

Standing up and stretching rather like a cat, Horntail looked around herself. It was late evening now, and though the other Regal Copper was gone, Laetificat was still lounging about, keeping one sleepy eye on her. Horntail ignored her and instead looked around for any of her crew. A few of the ground crew members were lounging about, and she could see one of her ensigns, Turner, running away, no doubt to inform someone that she was awake again. The rest were who knew where – no doubt entertaining themselves elsewhere, now that Harry's absence had made her useless and put them out of work.

Settling down again, she wondered about that. Right now the aviators were no doubt waiting for a message from France, waiting for the negotiations to begin – thinking they had Harry, and that they wanted Horntail. The Admiralty were probably preparing to pay ransoms, which sometimes happened when a dragon's captain – and the dragon – was captured. It very rarely happened with the bigger beasts though – it mattered very little if a middle weight was returned to its country or origin, but a heavy weight? Never. And someone like her?

Sighing, Horntail dug furrows into the dirt beneath her – she would've frowned, if dragon's facial muscles worked that way. How long would it take for the Admiralty to realise that the enemy didn't have Harry? Days, possibly weeks – most likely weeks. Would she have to wait in Gibraltar until that time? It didn't seem very interesting. Though of course she could spend the time playing ball with the other dragons – one of the larger clearings a bit further away from the covert had been set aside for that and there tended to be a game or several every night – so there was that, but….

Well, she'd lack all the other interesting methods of killing time. She couldn't play cards like Harry often did with his crew, she couldn't converse over dinner, another nearly daily entertainment. Nor could she write or read, something Harry was forced to do fairly often thanks to the ever growing business of the _Potter and Thorpe_ company. Oh, god, the company – what would happen if people thought Harry was dead? What about the patents - and what would happen to the _accounts_?

Grumbling a bit, Horntail lowered her head. Sure, Harry had cheated enormously with his _inventions_ , but the business aspect of the enterprise was perfectly legal and it had taken hard work to start. And it had been even harder to keep secret – sure, her crew knew, and naturally the Admiralty, but it wasn't common knowledge. It would be a damned waste if all of it would be ruined by people declaring Harry dead. Of course, Harry wasn't and would return and be able to reclaim his fortunes, but still.

"Well, what has you grumbling like that?" Berkley asked, coming to her side. He looked relieved though, probably having been expecting to find her in the whining distress she had been before – which, now that she thought about it, was rather embarrassing. "Are you hungry, old girl?"

Horntail shook her head and turned to nuzzle her nose against his outstretched hand – he was a good and caring first lieutenant, and she was glad of him, even if it would do little to help her in this mess.

"We still have no word of the Captain, though the patrols are still looking," Berkley said a bit awkwardly. "But I'm sure there is nothing to worry about."

It was a bit awkward, how he tried to comfort her when there was no reason for it, anymore. Humming, Horntail wished she could've told him, though in the end she couldn't have, even if she could've spoken – Berkley wouldn't have understood and the bond between her and Harry would forever be best unmentioned. No one not inherently magical would understand, after all.

"How about a game?" Berkley asked, eventually. "I think Quantuvis was complaining earlier about wanting to have a match."

Humming again, Horntail stood and stretched again. It would be a way to kill time, waiting for Harry to wake up.

She almost made it to the playing field. There was disconcerting feeling of being shaken by a shoulder, dizziness, and then suddenly the ground came up at her while –

 

* * *

 

Harry woke up with a jerk, blinking his bleary eyes confusedly. "Sir?" Laurence asked cautiously, pulling back. "Sir, there are some people outside, they are demanding to see you – He… Healer Honeycutt says that she can't keep them away for long."

Blinking again, Harry groaned softly and touched his head. He could still feel _Horntail_ and _passing out_ echoing inside him, and the feeling was beyond disconcerting. Had she really passed out? Just because he was being woken up? Would the reverse work too? Damn it, she had collapsed just near the clearing where the dragons played – there would be no way someone wouldn't try to wake her up, not to mention about possible medical concerns about passing out suddenly – if nothing else, Berkley would probably run to get Williamson and –

"Sir? Captain Potter?" the lieutenant asked worried.

"I'm alright. I apologise, Lieutenant, I am not at my best, being roused so suddenly. Give me a moment to gather myself," Harry said, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and trying to get his mind into order. The transition had been sudden, too sudden – he felt like he was up on a dragon back with no carabiners, in full gale. His heart, now that he thought about it, was pounding.

He wouldn't have minded another sip of calming potion.

But, he quickly pulled himself together, as well as he could, and lowered his hands. Taking a deep breath, Harry looked up to the worried lieutenant. "I'm alright," he promised, and shifted from beneath the comforter. "Did the Healer say who is coming?"

"I believe the healer said that one of them was a headmaster of a school, but the name was… I am afraid I did not catch it fully," the lieutenant admitted and then glanced at Harry.

Harry nodded, thoughtful. So, it would be Dumbledore, at least, and maybe some other people. He didn't know what interest the headmaster would have in his situation, but he supposed he could just as well find out.

Laurence cleared his throat. "Um, sir, your clothing…"

Harry glanced down to the pyjamas someone had dressed him in. "Yes," he agreed. They were thin and wrinkled and not very good for receiving guests, despite everything. "Very well. Can you see my clothing anywhere?" he asked, standing up. Not that being well dressed was that important here, or in the Aerial Corps either, really, but it wouldn't hurt. Even if the pyjamas were a fair bit more comfortable than breeches.

Thankfully the Healers had apparently been expecting his desire to shift from the pyjamas into a full set of clothing, and not only had his clothing all been cleaned for him, but they had also been repaired and, by the looks of it, ironed – though he had no doubt that all of it had been accomplished magically. While the lieutenant first watched awkwardly and then turned to embarrassedly look away, Harry swiftly rid himself of the pyjamas, and began to dress himself, feeling a bit more like himself once he had his familiar bottle green coat with it's double bars of his rank.

"I don't suppose you know how to do a decent queue?" Harry asked, after tying his neck cloth somewhat haphazardly, and then carding his hands through his no doubt messy hair. It had recently gotten long enough to be tied properly, but he still had yet to learn the skill of properly managing it.

"I can try, sir," Laurence said a bit awkwardly, and went about tying Harry's hair, while the aviator lamented about the lack of a hat – he hadn't worn one for the patrol.

Soon enough Harry was decently enough dressed and if there were any further scruffiness about his appearance, it couldn't be helped. Mostly he was thankful of the time to think and calm himself the process of clothing gave him, and by the end of it he had something like proper calm and steadiness restored. He didn't come into any sort of helpful conclusions about why Dumbledore would want to see him under the circumstances, though. Meanwhile the lieutenant, taking the lead from him, shifted his own clothing quickly into better order, though he had much less to do, being completely dressed to begin with – and much neater at any rate, his clothing having never suffered the haste and wear of an aviator's duties.

"Alright, Lieutenant," Harry said, sitting down again and gingerly rubbing his stomach – it was not quite paining him, but there was an awkward twinge there. Lowering his hand, he looked around, and for a moment wondered about his muskets, his sword. They couldn't have left them on the damned boat, right? "You can let them inside."

"Sir," Laurence nodded and opened the door.

Dumbledore, as far as Harry could see, hadn't changed much. While Laurence straightened his back, his eyes widening and features getting a queer, disbelieving expression, the old man walked in, his extravagantly colourful and _glittering_ robes and cloaks swirling around his feet as he did. His beard was still long, as was his hair, and the warm twinkle of his eyes was as familiar as the rest – if a bit strained by the general tiredness of his face.

"Harry, my boy. It's very good to see you," the old wizard said, coming forth with two other people following him. The first Harry knew – Remus Lupin, who wore grey robes with patches at the elbows, and whose hair had gone even greyer around the temples, and someone else Harry didn't know – he was a black man in plain but near dark blue robes, and a single golden ring in one earlobe.

One couldn't deny that they all looked very much like wizards – and it wasn't just the clothing either. There was something about them, a quality of presence Harry himself had lost in the intervening months, something he couldn't name, but which seemed to surround them.

"Professors," the aviator said cautiously, nodding to Dumbledore and Lupin both and giving poor Laurence a sympathetic glance. The man hadn't believed him about magic, no doubt still didn't – this display couldn't have been doing much good for the man's mental balance.

"Harry," Professor Lupin said warmly, nodding at him even while giving a curious look at Harry's clothing and a glance towards Lieutenant Laurence. "How are you feeling? We heard you were injured."

"I am very well – the healers fixed me up though I'm not to exert myself in the next day or so, so pardon that I don't stand to shake hands," Harry said and gave a curious look at the dark skinned wizard, who was eying Laurence interestedly. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" the aviator then asked, not really wanting to spend time in pleasantries when their very presence there was so very curious.

His words seemed to surprise his guests, because Lupin and the dark skinned man exchanged a look and raised eyebrows. Dumbledore, however, merely smiled. "Perhaps a bit of privacy first?" he asked, glancing towards Laurence, who looked like he would've rather liked to scowl in answer.

"The Lieutenant is trustworthy," Harry said, smothering the urge to snort softly. It wasn't like there was anyone here Laurence knew, or could tell anything to. "He is under my protection, and you can say whatever you have in mind in his presence."

 "Hm…. Very well. May I take a seat?" the headmaster asked, and Harry motioned him to do so. "Thank you. I'm afraid, my boy, that I have not been part of the project that eventually brought you home – once the Department of Mysteries took charge of the site, I have been woefully in the dark about its progress. But I understand that while you were in the other world, time passed for you as it did for us in this world. Possibly at the same pace, even."

"It might have," Harry agreed thoughtfully, his back almost automatically straightening at the word _my boy_. The few times he had came in front of one or more of the Navy admiral, someone tended to say something along those lines, and not very complimentarily – it was very hard not to get reflexively offended. "I don't know the precise date here," he added, to cover up the sting.

"It is the eleventh of May, nineteen ninety six, now," Dumbledore told him calmly. Behind him, Laurence sank to sit on the edge of the other bed, his face pale.

Pushing aside his emotions, Harry considered the date and nodded. "Then, it did," he said. It had been November of nineteen ninety four here, and November seventeen ninety four on the other side, when he had first entered it. And now… "It was May in seventeen ninety six on the other side, though I am not entirely sure if it was the eleventh. I was unconscious for a while," Harry mused, though the chances that it had been the eleventh were rather strong. That was precisely the difference of two hundred years. He hadn't thought of that before.

"You were in the _past_?" the dark skinned man asked, fascinated, and then stepped forward. "My name is Kingley Shacklebolt, Mr. Potter, I work for Magical Law Enforcement."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Harry said, nodding, "And yes, it was the past – though the past of an alternate world." He added, not interested in arguing the point of proper rank and titles right then.

"You knew it was an alternate world?" Lupin enquired interestedly.

"There were some striking differences," Harry said rather dryly, and turned to Dumbledore. "I suppose there is significance in the fact that the two worlds are precisely two hundred years apart?"

"As to that, I cannot say," Dumbledore admitted. "The Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries are much better equipped to answer your questions about that, I'm sure. That is however not the point I was trying to get to. Time has passed for you, and for us, and in the time you have been gone, some things have… occurred."

"Chief Croaker and the Minister already informed me about the Prophesy and Voldemort," Harry offered, frowning a bit. "And the reason as to why they went through so much trouble. We're coming to an agreement about my services for them in this matter."

"Your… services for them?" Lupin asked, blinking.

Harry nodded. "I might not be aware of all the particulars, but they brought me here because they believe I am the only man capable of defeating Voldemort, that much at least is clear to me," he said calmly, frowning a bit at the look Lupin and Dumbledore shared. "I have informed them that I would be willing to render my services to their cause, though with conditions – once I am released from St. Mungos, I have no doubt we will start drawing the contracts."

"Contracts – the Ministry demanded a contract from you?" Dumbledore asked, sounding worried.

"No, I demanded a contract from them. It might have been a while, but I have not forgotten the common mode of conduct of the Ministry," Harry added and snorted. "Arresting Hagrid in my second year for the lack of a better culprit, stationing _Dementors_ around a school in my third as if there were no better guards and the magical contract of the Tri-Wizard tournament on my fourth. No, I will not do anything for them until I am certain I have my terms."

"Oh," Dumbledore said, and relaxed a bit. "Might I enquire about your terms?"

"Certain liberty of movement and conduct as far as the work goes," the aviator said. "And the assurance that once Voldemort is defeated and the war dealt with, I will be returned home." He said, and glanced at Laurence, who was staring at the four of them like he had never seen people before. "And the Lieutenant as well," he added, though he doubted the words registered for the man.

At first that seemed to satisfy Dumbledore, but then the elderly wizard seemed to read something from Harry's expression – and his inclusion of the lieutenant. "Home?" he asked cautiously, dreading the answer.

"The other world," Harry nodded. "I have unfinished business there, I have duties and obligations, I have friends and I have…" he trailed away, shaking his head. "I have many reasons to return."

"Duties, obligations?"

Harry hesitated, unsure as to how to continue. He had no intention of keeping what he had been doing in the other world a secret, indeed, there was little use – anyone familiar with history could've deduced some of it from his and the lieutenant's clothing. And, without Horntail and without his magic, his history with the military service, as short as it had been so far, was his only advantage in the war against Voldemort. But he wasn't sure if these people, _wizards_ , would understand. Did the magical world even have such thing as the military?

"In the other world, there is a war going on and I am in the service of His Majesty's Royal Aerial Corps," he said after a moment somewhat tentatively. "I have been for well over a year now. My rank is captain, and there are thirty four men under my command," he said and then added, figuring that it would probably be something they'd have a bit easier time understanding; "As well as a quite valuable dragon. Plus the other two dragons and their crew that are in my formation," he added, smiling a bit crookedly at the way their eyes widened with shock. "Like I said, some striking differences."

For a long moment, neither Dumbledore nor Lupin seemed to know what to say, probably not having been expecting Harry's eagerness to return to the world he had been stranded in. For a moment Harry wondered what they had been expecting – a lost fourteen year old boy, happy to be home again? And what did he look like in contrast to those expectations, as seen through their eyes, what did they think of him?

 The dark skinned man had no concerns as far as Harry could see, though, and instead he stepped closer, his dark eyes keen. "Captain," he said, the word a question rather than a statement, "in charge of people and dragons. How does that work?"

Harry considered, wondering how to explain. "As far as the military service and command goes, I think that is more or less similar as to how it was here for muggles, two hundred years ago. Granted, I was never that good a student and don't recall that much of my history, but it seems likely enough," he said finally. "I have nothing to compare it to, but it seems a rather basic type of the military service."

"And the dragons?" Shacklebolt asked.

"Well… there is no magic in the other world that I could find, but there are dragons," Harry said, considering his words carefully. "Not like here, however, they are intelligent, amiable creatures, capable of feeling, rational thinking, decision making, and speech. They are tamed via a mode of imprinting – upon their hatching, they are offered certain candidates who will make the attempt to harness the hatchling, and if they manage it, a bond of affection and care is formed which lasts a lifetime."

He continued; "That is the foundation of the Aerial Corps. The dragons and their imprinted partners, their captains, go through military training and then they serve in the Aerial Corps, their duties depending on size and breed of course. The larger breeds can carry as much as fifty aviators, and cause untold damage via gunfire and bombs and suchlike. Almost all countries have them, some more than others, and they are commonly used in warfare."

The dark skinned wizard nodded, his eyes first widening and then narrowing. "And you've been in charge of a dragon, that way? And men?"

"Yes," Harry agreed, glancing between them and smiling a bit crookedly. "The Hungarian Horntail," he explained. "She came through with me."

"And you _control_ it?" the man asked, his eyebrows climbing up.

"Yes," the aviator nodded, but didn't explain _how_ in further detail. "It's not exactly common for your average civilian to be running around with a dragon, though, and the moment we were discovered there were only two choices. Either Horntail would be forced to live away from the common people in the breeding grounds – which in a sense are similar to dragon sanctuaries here, I suppose – or we would enter the military service. The breeding grounds didn't really interest us that much, so we joined the Aerial Corps. We trained, we got ourselves a crew, and for a year now we've been in full service."

"And you've been in battle?" the man asked almost eagerly. "You've led people into battle. And been a formation leader. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Combat dragons commonly fly in formations, some as large as ten dragons, and some as small as three. Usually they are centred around dragons of certain abilities – acid spitting, physical strength, and the like. Horntail is a fire breather, which makes her somewhat special – fire breathing in the other world isn't a common ability with dragons, and it's highly valued. So all her formations always centre around her, with her in lead, and the rest of the company as her protection," Harry explained, frowning. "What of it?"

Shacklebolt didn't answer instantly; instead he turned and paced the room deep in thought, while Dumbledore and Lupin regained their composure. "You ride on a dragon?" Lupin asked. "You _command_ a dragon?"

"Yes," the aviator nodded.

"Did the Hungarian Horntail grow more intelligent when you landed in the other world?" Dumbledore asked, sounding fascinated. "Did she learn speech?"

"Ah, no. We communicate via other means," Harry answered. "However without me there, Britain loses her service – only I can bring out her full potential. And without her…" he shifted a bit, awkwardly. "I don't want to live a life where I cannot ride dragons. Where I cannot fly with her. That, in the end, is why I want to return."

Lupin still looked a bit dismayed, but Dumbledore eyed Harry seriously for a moment and then nodded. "I suppose it was foolish of us to think that you might not grow fond of the other world," he mused. "Very well, I see the point of you having demanded the contract from the Ministry. But you must see that there might be loopholes in such things?"

"Yes, that's why I've demanded it to be magical, and that my own legal representative will have a look at it before it is signed – though I don't know if there are such things as magical solicitors," Harry mused, frowning.

"There are – I will introduce you to my own, if you wish it, she is quite capable," the headmaster promised and then frowned. "Harry," he then said seriously. "Do you fully understand what the Ministry is asking from you, though?"

"They want me to fight Voldemort, defeat him – probably kill him – and end the war," the aviator said and shrugged. "It seemed rather straight forward."

"And you're willing to do it?" Lupin asked worriedly. "You think you're capable of doing it?"

"Killing Voldemort?" Harry asked. "Magically no. My magic is bound to the other world, according to Croaker I can't manage spells as I am. But I won't have any qualms about putting a bullet to his head, if it comes to that. Or putting a sword through him," he added and then glanced around. "Which reminds me, I will have to ask about those from Croaker if he makes another visit – I can't see any of my small arms here…."

"You're very easy at the concept of killing a man," Dumbledore mused.

"I'm a soldier in service during war time – what do you think I have been doing the past year or so?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, yes, precisely," Kingsley said, turning to look at Harry, his mind made up about whatever he had been considering. "A soldier, a commanding officer, used to warfare. I don't suppose you would have any worries about leading a group of men into a fight?"

"I do it on daily basis, so no, not really," Harry answered.

"I need to talk about this with Chief Bones, but I think I have an idea. Captain Potter, do you think you could lead wizards in the same manner?" Kingsley asked.

"Wizards?" the aviator asked and frowned. He had been thinking about that earlier and indeed it seemed the only suitable way he could manage this war, being without magic and such abilities himself. But there was a problem. Leading meant that there were people who could be lead. "I didn't think the magical world had anything like the military service," he said cautiously. "Lack of the military _discipline_ would make my leading them rather difficult."

"Couldn't you teach them?"

"I suppose that could be done," the aviator said slowly.

"Well then, I will make the suggestion to chief Bones. Since you're already making contracts with the Ministry, and with the Prophesy, it seems like the best chance," Shacklebolt said, and turned to Dumbledore. "Unless you have any objections, headmaster?"

"Mm, no, I don't suppose I have," the old man said, looking at Harry thoughtfully. "If you think you are capable of it, Harry?"

"If I'm not, then we'll find out soon enough and can think of something else," Harry mused shrugging.

"That is settled them. Good evening, Captain. Expect to hear from Magical Law Enforcement soon," Shacklebolt said, and made his exit.

There was a moment of silence, during which Harry stole a glance towards Lieutenant Laurence, who hadn't spoken a single word in a long while. The man seemed deep in thought, no doubt fighting an internal battle between what he knew and what he was witnessing, and Harry decided to leave him be.

"I don't suppose you could tell me in detail what has been happening here?" he asked, turning to Dumbledore and Lupin. "I know only what I've been told so far, and it's fairly little. How did Voldemort return?"

"He used a dark ritual," Dumbledore said darkly. "It required human sacrifice. We don't know everything, there are no witnesses willing to speak, but it is speculated that he originally intended to use the Tri-Wizard tournament – and you – as part of the ritual. But, when you vanished, he applied other means instead."

Harry nodded with a frown. "Who did he use? Do I know them?" he asked.

"It was Alastor Moody," Lupin said, with a dark expression.

"Yes. The original one – we later found out that the Moody we hired as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in ninety four was a fake, namely Barty Crouch Junior, who had the original one trapped – he used Polyjuice potion to manage the charade. He most likely was the one who entered your name in the Cup," Dumbledore said. "He was quite quick to vanish after you did and after it was determined that bringing you back would take quite a bit of effort."

"I see," the aviator murmured, frowning. "So, Voldemort returned. What has he been doing since?"

"Gathering allies, mostly. Azkaban was broken into about five months back – he released all his imprisoned followers," Dumbledore said, and continued to explain how they believed that Voldemort had also gained the loyalty of the Dementors, one of Britain's largest pack of werewolves, quite few giants, and possibly also a clan of vampires.

"He was quiet in his actions for a long while," Dumbledore explained when Harry asked, a bit incredulously, if that was really it. "It wasn't until the attack at Azkaban that the majority of the population even believed he was back. I don't know if or how the Department of Mysteries knew, when they took up the project of your return, but until that point the general view of the Ministry was that Voldemort hadn't returned."

"They probably knew because of the Prophesy," Lupin murmured thoughtfully. "Can't very well fulfil one, if one participant is in another world."

"No, indeed," Dumbledore agreed with a faint smile.

"Does everyone know about the Prophesy, now?" Harry asked with a frown.

"Yes. After the attack at Azkaban, there was some general chaos and panic – about a week afterwards, the Prophesy was printed in the Daily Prophet," Dumbledore said, his expression darkening. "I am not sure if it was just the Ministry attempting to soothe the population however they could, or if it was a gimmick by the Department of Mysteries, however."

"Gimmick?" Harry asked.

"Once everyone knew about the Prophesy, it became stronger. They are only as strong as the belief people have in them," Lupin explained. "After that, there was no way the Department of Mysteries wouldn't be able to return you. The magic of the Prophesy itself wouldn't allow anything but a success."

The aviator shook his head, running a hand through the shorter strands of his hair which weren't quite long enough to reach the queue. "It will take me some time to adjust my thinking to magic," he murmured a bit ruefully.

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, hopefully you will have time. Voldemort is still keeping a low profile, though he might begin to move now that he knows of your return – the papers, I'm afraid, couldn't be kept quiet," he explained. "Now, there is another reason for our visit here, which is this," he added, pulling out a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. "It is from your godfather," he explained.

"Oh?" Harry murmured, wincing a bit – he had forgotten Sirius completely. Quickly he opened the letter, and eyed the contents – they were fairly short and inelegant, with Sirius informing him that he was glad that Harry was back home and that Harry should come to stay at his place – that there were other people there who would like to meet him.

"I suppose there is more behind this than what I read here?" Harry asked, after noticing how keenly he was being observed by both Dumbledore and Lupin.

"Quite a bit more, yes," Dumbledore agreed and smiled. "You could say that we have formed a counter force to oppose Voldemort and his Death Eaters and other followers. Before your explanation about your intentions with the Ministry, we were rather expecting that you would join us."

"Hm," Harry answered, eyeing the letter again. "What sort of counter force?"

"Just some wizards and witches who are willing to fight for what they believe is right," the headmaster answered. "You know some of the members already, in fact," he added, glancing at Lupin and then back at Harry. "We would like to extend an invitation and our offer to help you in any way we can."

"I suppose I would have to meet your counter force before making that decision," the aviator said, and folded the paper. "Where is this place of Sirius'?"

"Here," Dumbledore said, and handed him another piece of parchment. "Please memorise it fully – you will not be able to find it or enter it without knowing."

Harry frowned and read the single line of _the Headquarters of the Order of the_ _Phoenix_ _can be found at the Number 12, Grimmauld place._ "Magical protection of some sort, I suppose?" he asked.

"Indeed. Only those who know can find the place, it is hidden for everyone else," Dumbledore said.

"Alright. Lieutenant," Harry said, raising his voice just enough to snap Laurence out of his brown study. "Please read and memorise this, it is vitally important."

"Sir?" the Navy man asked, looking startled, but he accepted the parchment. The frown he got to his face was rather confused as he read the single line. "Phoenix?" the man mouthed silently and then shook his head, apparently not even wanting to try and figure it out.

"Do you have it memorised?" Harry asked, when the man handed the parchment back.

"I will remember, sir," the man promised, while Dumbledore and Lupin, both of whom seemed to have forgotten the quiet man, eyed him with surprise.

"Harry, is he one of those under your command in the other world?" Lupin asked cautiously.

"No. Lieutenant Laurence is a Navy man. I was shot in a battle and dropped to a ship he serves on – the injures I was brought the St. Mungos for," Harry explained, handing the parchment back to Dumbledore. "The _Normandy_ was to be taken, however, and the captain of the ship ordered Laurence to evacuate me on a jollyboat. We were stranded in the Atlantic Ocean, some hundred miles off the coast of Spain, when Croaker came to get me. I didn't want them to leave the lieutenant stranded, so they brought him with us."

"I see," Lupin answered a bit faintly and then frowned. "You were _shot_?" he asked. "I thought…" he trailed away, touching his right cheekbone.

"Oh. Oh, no, I got that months ago," Harry answered with a laugh, touching the burn scar. "Bit of Horntail's flame brushed me. I would've lost an ear and quite bit of hair, if I hadn't been wearing a hood."

Lupin nodded, looking a bit pale.

"Well," Dumbledore said. "I think it is time we were off. Tell me, Captain Potter, when will you be released from the hospital?"

"I'm not entirely sure if I am actually forced to stay," Harry answered. "The wounds are healed and I'm only told not to exert myself. I suppose we could ask Healer Honeycutt – she's my attending healer."

"Then, if you are released, would you like to join us at Grimmauld Place?" Dumbledore asked. "I know your godfather at least is quite eager to see you again."

Harry considered it and then nodded. "I don't have other arrangements, and I would like to learn more about the war and what else has been happening here," he said and started to stand up when –

 

* * *

 

Horntail's eyed snapped open, as the insistent nudging at her side woke her. Blinking hazily, she lifted her head to find Quantuvis at her side, nudging at her. "Come on, you great lump of brimstone, wake up," the big Parnassian muttered, and Horntail almost growled in irritation.

During the discussion with Dumbledore and Lupin, he had completely forgotten about the switch between bodies – and that she had probably passed out just in the forest next to the playing field. It was almost night now, she found, and her body was stiff and aching, having fallen asleep in such a place.

"Horntail? You awake, old girl?" Berkley asked, coming to her head while Williamson hurried forward.

"Do you feel dizzy at all, Horntail? Any lightness of head?" the surgeon demanded to know, and she shook her head, stretching. She had fallen asleep in an awkward position – her left hind leg felt numb, and her tail had been bent in an awkward angle. "Take deep breaths now," the surgeon said quickly. "Deep breaths – we don't want you loosing consciousness again."

She growled in agreement. Though her head did feel like it had been packed with wool, it was probably mostly because of the sudden awakening. Stretching and groaning, she decided that she might as well go back to the clearing quickly – if Dumbledore, Lupin and Laurence decided to shake Harry awake, she'd just end up passing out again. Better be in a proper place that time.

"Slowly, now," Williamson said, while Quantuvis, after one last worried look at her, took flight to get out of the way. With Berkley and Williamson leading her, she turned and returned to her own clearing, the feeling returning to her leg in pins and needles – something she hadn't thought dragons even suffered. She really needed to figure a better position to pass out in, next.

She made it just in time and even managed to quickly settle down, before the of feeling swept over her and –

 

* * *

 

"Damn it," Harry muttered, as he was jostled awake by Laurence's hands. Shuddering a bit, Harry lifted his hand to his face, trying to clear his head after the disorienting switch.

"Harry?" Dumbledore asked, leaning close. "Harry are you quite alright?"

"Never better," the aviator answered, blinking. "Tell me, did I loose consciousness or fall asleep?"

"You fell asleep, as far as I could tell," the headmaster said, just as Lupin returned with Healer Honeycutt in tow, the woman bustling in with her usual vigour, stern expression on her face and wand already waving.

"What are you doing out of pyjamas? Oh, never mind, let me have a look at you. Mr. Lupin said you fell asleep without warning - did you feel dizzy at all?" she asked, aiming the wand right at Harry's left eye, and shining a light into it. "How are you feeling, does your stomach hurt?"

"I'm fine," Harry answered, while Laurence released him so that the Healer could press him back and to lie on the bed fully. "It isn't a medical condition," he said. "And there is nothing you can do – it is because of my bond with the other world."

"Let me be the judge of that, mister," the witch said, and Harry sighed, submitting himself to her tender mercies, while Laurence, Dumbledore and Lupin watched worriedly from the side.

"Hmm," Honeycutt finally murmured, scowling. "You said this has to do with the bond? How do you figure that?"

"Do Healers believe in patient confidentiality?" Harry asked in return. "I am not entirely sure I want… everyone knowing."

"Hm…" the healer murmured and then turned to the other men in the room. "Out, out, everyone out," she said then, waving at them with her hands. "I need a moment of privacy here. Out, this instance!"

A bit amused, now that the disorienting feeling of the switch was fading, Harry watched how the woman chased the two wizards and the Navy lieutenant out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them. She even went as far as to throw a spell of some sort at the door, perhaps for further privacy.

"Now," the woman said, turning to face him with determined, stormy eyes. "Explain."

Harry did, a bit awkwardly and embarrassedly – it was the first time he had ever done so, he realised, Honeycutt being the first person he had ever told about the duality between him and Horntail. "It took a long while to get used to, but I did," Harry said, while the woman fell to sit with a bewildered look about her face. "It's worked to both our advantage in the other world – dragons are more common and more intelligent there, and between us we can pretend Horntail is just like them. Now though… only one of us remains awake at a given time. And when someone wakens her, I fall asleep – and when someone wakens me, she falls asleep."

"So, when you fell asleep, someone was waking the dragon in the other side. And when you woke up here…" Honeycutt murmured. "It is not something I have ever treated or even heard of, but no, I cannot say that it is impossible. There are magics that tamper with the soul, some of them horrible and dark and some of them quite a bit lighter in nature. Tell me, is there any strain to you, due to this duality?"

"Now, yes, obviously. Before the only strain I had was getting used to having two pairs of eyes," Harry admitted. "And controlling the bodies separately and differently. That took a while."

"But no mental fatigue, no emotional strain? Tell me, have you been more bipolar since then, or –" Once she covered her shock, Honeycutt had many questions, all of which Harry tried to answer as honestly as he could. After a moment, she even went as far as to getting a parchment and starting to write down notes, her face growing serious.

"I am no expert in soul magic, or the intricacies of travelling between realities, but I think I have the basics of it," she then said and then frowned. "Captain Potter, I believe that it would be in your best interest to reveal this information to Chief Croaker. I understand you have concerns and yes, they are very reasonable, but Croaker would not do anything you do not agree to. He is also the foremost expert in these sorts of strange magics and he is much better equipped in helping you."

"Do I need help?" Harry asked, frowned.

"Yes, if the bond makes you narcoleptic and can take you down at the most inopportune moments – especially so, if you intend to be fighting dark wizards on this side," she said seriously. "He will most likely be able to explain how it is possible in the first place, your duality, and what risks it might have."

Harry frowned worriedly, but nodded though a bit reluctantly. "If you honestly think it's the right course of action, I suppose I will have to take it. But I am not comfortable with it – my bond with Horntail, my _duality_ is something I have grown accustomed to, and for the world I would not change it," he said, his frown darkening. "I do not want to lose my existence as a dragon. Or as a man."

"I'm sure Croaker wouldn't even want to tamper with it," Honeycutt said and then snorted. "You do realise that studying strange magical occurrences is his life's work? This will make his day."

"Well, that is another thing I am not too eager to experience, being _studied_ ," Harry answered dryly.

"It might not be as bad as it seems now," the healer said, and tucked away the notes she had made. "Now, are you sure you feel alright? How is the stomach?"

"It is perfectly fine," Harry sighed, but allowed the woman to check. In the end, though, she did come to the conclusion that there was very little for her to do anymore – the wound was healed, the fever gone, all there was left was the narcolepsy caused by the bond, and she couldn't do anything about that.

"I think I would rather you remain here until the whole business of the bond is figured out," she said. "I can send a letter to Croaker that you want to see him first thing in the morning. Then, and only then, will I consider releasing you."

"Very well," the aviator said. "So long it is no bother – and the lieutenant can remain, of course, I'd rather not leave him to the mercies of this world just yet."

"Of course – the room is yours, until I release you," the healer nodded. "Shall I let the others in?"

"Please."

After Harry had reassured Dumbledore and Lupin that his sudden bout of sleep was in no way life threatening – not under these circumstances anyway - and that there would be every chance he would be released the following day, the two made to leave.

"I will come again tomorrow," Lupin said, after the two had discussed it amongst themselves. "So if you are released, I can take you to Grimmauld place."

"Alright," Harry agreed. "I shall see you tomorrow then, Professor. Good evening."

"Good evening," Lupin nodded in return and then made to leave, following the headmaster out and leaving Harry alone with Laurence, who had not grown any easier or calmer during the short period out of the room. While the lieutenant lingered about the door nervously, trying not to show it or the fact that the man obviously had no idea what was happening or what he ought to do, Harry sighed.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked, motioning the man to come closer. "And stop hovering by the door like a cadet about to be dressed down."

"Yes, sir," the man said awkwardly, and came forth. "And… while it is hard to not try and assure myself that this is some sort of feverish dream my own mind is conjuring to toy with me, I…" he trailed away, glancing towards the closed door. "I doubt my mind could be quite this creative." He sounded rather helpless, when he admitted it.

Harry smiled faintly. "Sit down, Mr. Laurence," he said, and the man sank to the chair with a sigh. "I know things are probably moving faster than you can keep up with right now. I'll try and keep you as informed as possible but this world, it is quite confusing. If you have questions… I would be more than happy to answer, if I only can. Please, have no hesitations."

"I have several, sir," the Navy lieutenant admitted, letting out a soft laugh. "I don't know where to begin."

"Start with the one that worries you the most, and we'll go forth from there," Harry offered, as kindly as he could.

"Very well," the man said and considered it. "I… understand that there is a war here. But I am at sea as far as the opposition goes – is _Voldemort_ a country here?" he asked slowly. "Perhaps a version of France? Or possibly a province?"

Harry blinked, and then let out a snort of laughter, making the man straighten his shoulders and look rather offended. "No, no, Lieutenant, I'm not laughing at you. Well, maybe a bit, but please do not take offence," Harry said quickly. "Voldemort is not a country. He is a dark wizard – a man."

"Then… the war is against _one man_?" Laurence asked, disbelieving.

"The thing about wizards is that they can do extremely wide spread damage, when they decide that it's what they need to do, to get what they want," Harry said, still chuckling. "Voldemort is a wizard, a dark wizard, extremely powerful and widely feared – so feared, in fact, that very few dare to say the name out loud. And he has followers, other wizards and creatures, though I don't know how many."

"So it is group of people," Laurence said. "And yet it is a _war_? Surely not."

 Harry chuckled and then thought about it. "This is the _second_ war against him – the first happened years ago, starting long before I was born, and I understand it was a very dark time for the magicals of Britain," he said. "I suppose that is why they call it war, because that was what happened back then – they expect it to happen again, and possibly be worse. Magic is a terrible weapon, it can kill, maim and torture at a single word, and worse yet, it can control you, and turn you into a tool. Warfare fought with it is quite terrible, I understand, shadowy and difficult to match."

Laurence frowned, saying nothing for a moment and just thinking about it. When he finally spoke, he still sounded a bit disbelieving. "Voldemort is French, is it not?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Flight of death, yes, but the man himself is English," Harry answered. "I suspect most of his followers are British as well, one way or the other, though the giants he couldn't have gotten anywhere but the continent – I think there are no native giants in the isles."

Laurence nodded, blinking a bit at the world _giants_. "What has this Voldemort done then – what are his goals – that his very existence is cause of this… civil war," he asked slowly, looking at Harry keenly – trying to understand.

"He's killed who knows how many people, and been the indirect cause of several other deaths. My parents are among the numbers of his victims," Harry said slowly and Laurence frowned. "But I think the reason why people fear him isn't as much the horrors he has caused, but the power he has and the means to which he uses it – and the potential it has. He had a great many greatly powerful followers, all of whom follow him loyally, and believe in his goal. Which is the eradication of Muggles – such as yourself," Harry said, and smiled apologetically as the lieutenant scowled at the word. "As well as muggleborn wizards and witches. He believes that only children of true wizards and witches should be permitted to live, to have magic, to flourish. And, most terrifyingly, he just might have enough power and insanity to actually accomplish his goals."

"One man?" Laurence asked with disbelief.

"One man with loyal followers, and with great magical powers," Harry said and smiled at the lieutenant's frown. "I know you don't believe me yet on that score, but magic will prove itself to you eventually. I hope you keep an open mind, then."

The Navy man shook his head, but not in immediate denial. For a moment they were in silence, Harry waiting for the next question and Laurence trying to internalise what he was hearing. "You originate from this world," the man then said, less a question than a statement – Dumbledore's, Lupin's and Shacklebolt's visit having proven it. "But you came into my world. How?"

"Via a magical accident," Harry answered with a soft laugh. "I don't understand the details of it, but it was most definitely not intentional. But… it happened." He leaned back a bit, and then explained what he could – that he had been fourteen, that his magic had been wild with panic, and there had been a great deal of blood, something that he now supposed figured into the activation of the Celtic site. He then explained his awakening in the forest, with Horntail, and how they had been eventually found by the dragons of the Aerial Corps. It wasn't a very detailed account, but it explained the basics of it.

"I had heard that the fire breather was somehow of an odd breed, but… from another world entirely?" Laurence murmured, frowning and shaking his head.

Harry shrugged. "Imagine my shock, finding myself in a world full of dragons, all as amiable as her and more – and none of the ones I saw capable of breathing fire, something every dragon here does with ease," he said. "And the time period too – I was essentially two hundred years in the past. Oh, that reminds me," he added, and grimaced. "We are, in a manner of speaking, in your future. Two hundred years into the future."

"Of an… alternate world," Laurence said, seeming to taste the words as he spoke them. "Surely it does not signify much, when the worlds have such differences."

"They have, true, but they have also similarities. The war we fought, the war those we know are still fighting, is _history_ here," Harry said slowly. "Recorded history. Granted, here it all happened without dragons, but there are similarities. Nelson, for one. And Napoleon Bonaparte."

"The French commander?" Laurence asked with confusion. "Well, I suppose he is a great general, and has scored a great many victories for France, but…."

Harry grimaced, shaking his head. "He is going to be far more than just that, if things go the way they did here," he said. It was a source of constant agitation, in the other world – to hear about Napoleon, and know that one day, the man would be not just another general of a great many, but the _Emperor_ of France. And being unable to tell anyone was worse – because, after all, who would believe him, and even if they did, what good would it do? Harry didn't remember any significant dates, he didn't remember the battles or strategies. He had never been good at history –

He paused, his trail of thought dying suddenly as he realised that, no, he hadn't been good at studying history. But he was here now, and it wasn't history anymore, not to him. What was history here was the _future_ on the other world. The sudden pull to this world might turn into a happy chance yet, if he could get his hands on the right books, and determine what would happen and then….

Harry swallowed, blinking. The temptation was great, but in an odd way he was suddenly sickened with himself.

"Captain Potter?" Laurence asked slowly.

"Pardon me, I… had an ugly thought," Harry said, and smiled grimly. Shaking his head, he turned to face the lieutenant. "Imagine having a history book written about your future, with in it all the future battles and incidents. Imagine having that sort of knowledge. Imagine being able to prevent fights – or win them, by knowing your opponent's strategy before hand."

The Navy man frowned. "You believe you do?" he asked.

"I could. Like I said, this is the future of that other world. A slightly different future, but with similarities."

Laurence considered it and then shook his head. The aviator could easily see that he didn't take the words seriously, didn't believe in what Harry was saying. But still, the man answered; "If such pre-knowledge could truly be trusted, taking the differences into consideration, what honour would there be in using that knowledge?" he asked. "If the knowledge would be accurate and it's use achievable, then it would give you a clear advantage over all your opponents – a clear, _unmerited_ advantage."

"Yes. Like I said," Harry mused distantly. "An ugly thought."

But it was a thought he knew would fester.


	13. Part II, Chapter XIII

Horntail was bored. It was the middle of the night and no other dragon was awake in the Gibraltar Covert – and while there were some aviators and other people about, none of them paid much mind to her. In the distance she could hear laughing, some drunken men near the covert headquarters, but it was too far away for her to actually make out the words.

Sighing, she tapped the hard packed dirt beneath her with her claws, before starting to dig furrows. She was rarely bored in her dragonic body – Horntail couldn't turn around without it being far more fascinating than anything Harry had ever done in his body – but if this was what it would always be like, then it would get tiresome very quickly. Of course, it would be better for Harry to be awake as much as he could, and for Horntail to sleep and give him those daylight hours – but when it meant that she'd be left with the nights, with the quiet hours when no one else would be awake….

They had grown more patient, in the course of their service. But not _that_ much more.

Well, maybe it would ease up once the aviators would finally realise that no messages about Harry would be coming, no ransom demands or negotiation offered. If she didn't lose her mind in boredom in the meantime.

Spreading her talons a bit and smoothing the ground back into an even surface again, she carefully crooked most of her talons in and very carefully went about carving into the dirt with only a single one. It came out very clumsy, very jagged, her talons shaking a bit, unused as they were for delicate work, but the letter H was still somewhat clear.

There were things to consider, though. If not about herself, seeing that there was so little she could do before things took their course, then about Harry. There was a lot for Harry to do. Meeting with Croaker would be just the following morning. She needed to figure out what Harry would tell the man – and how to make sure that Croaker or anyone else for that matter wouldn't get any bright notions about tampering with the bond. Maybe Harry could extract another contract. Or a vow – there were such things as magical vows, weren't there?

God, Hogwarts seemed like ages ago – she had forgotten probably more than half of what Harry had learned there.

Depending on how things would go with Croaker, Harry might get released. Seeing Sirius would be interesting, even if she had no notion about what to say to the man. It had been a long while, now – the last time Harry had seen his godfather had been that night, with the Shrieking Shack and the Time Turner. Almost three years now. Judging by Dumbledore's and Lupin's caution and the magical protection, whatever it was, that was around Grimmauld Place, Sirius was most likely still a fugitive. Well, hopefully the man wasn't living off rats anymore.

Harry would need to figure out the contract with the Ministry. He should've given it some more thought – two conditions were nowhere near enough, he would need better insurance than just the assurances that he would have his way in certain things and that he would be returned home. After all, what would keep the Department of Mysteries from plucking him right back into the other world after completing their end of the bargain? It was something to talk with the lawyer – hopefully they'd be as capable as Dumbledore had made them seem.

Grumbling a bit to herself, Horntail eyed her talon – she had gotten dirt and pebbles beneath it. Of course. With a sigh, she went about trying to pry them off with the talons of her other forehand.

Absently she wondered about Harry's friends. Hermione and Ron would be near the end of their fifth year in Hogwarts, right now. The Tri-wizard tournament had ended a year ago – she wondered who had won it, and what had happened, without Harry there. Despite all that talk about magical contracts and obligatory participation once the cup had spat out the name, there hadn't been any backlash on Harry, after he had so dramatically dropped out. Possibly the contract had read his jump to another reality as him having forfeited or died in the tournament. Probably better that way.

Had Hermione and Ron thought he was dead? Or had people known the whole time that he was in an alternate reality? It was something ask Lupin, in the morning.

Pebbles cleared, Horntail glanced around until she saw a near by tree, dried and dead with withered, leafless branches. It took no effort at all to snap one branch off, though trying to situate the thing in her talons properly took some doing – having no opposable thumbs was rather annoying. But eventually she managed to grip the branch between her first and second digit firmly, and she could even direct it rather like a proper stylus.

The H she drew was no less wobbly than the first – it was far more so – but this time she got no pebbles under her claws.

Depending on how the contract would go and what Harry and the Minister would finally sign, she would need to figure out how to go about handling the war. More information was needed – that was the first thing she would need to look into. Perhaps the Order of the Phoenix would be of some help, and The Ministry too, if they were so inclined, but if not then something else ought to be done. If it got to that, perhaps Harry could hire some people. He should still have a vault full of gold.

Harry would also need weapons. The other world had much better variety of fire arms, that would be much less trouble to handle and load and use overall. It would be borderline impossible to get them in Britain, she knew as much, but perhaps there'd be some other way. Just a revolver would've been a great improvement – not that Harry would give up his muskets. They had a certain awkward charm, and there was a roundabout pride in carrying them and using them.

The o came out nicely enough, but the r ended up looking like something else entirely. Carefully she wiped the letter off, and tried again.

Harry would need to get some weapons for Laurence too, if the man would be inclined to help him. If not, then… Harry would arrange comfortable accommodations for the man, until the deed was done and they could go back home. Though, who knew. Maybe Laurence would do what Harry and Horntail had, and grow fonder of his new reality than his old one – though she rather doubted it. The poor Navy fellow wouldn't be able to turn around in that world without getting mortally offended, embarrassed or mortified – and then there were those Christian values so many gentlemen held in such high regard too. Laurence, Horntail supposed, was probably one of them.

Perhaps Harry could persuade the Department of Mysteries to return Laurence to his original world, and put him somewhere where he wouldn't be in danger of dying of starvation.

Letting her mind wander, Horntail kept sketching the letters of her name – then the letters of Harry's name – late into the night and into the early morning. They didn't lose their rough edges or clumsiness, but by the time she finally gave up the exercise and decided that Harry had had enough rest, they had started looking more or less legible.

 

* * *

 

It was early in the morning when Chief Croaker came to see Harry in St. Mungos. Harry was just freshly awoken and showered, his hair still a bit wet but feeling cleaner than he had in a while – despite the fact that he had been magically cleaned around his admittance to the hospital, nothing quite beat a _shower,_ which was probably one of the biggest things Harry missed when in the other world.

Laurence was just testing the shower – after having been instructed in the use of the valves and explained that the water wouldn't run out, warm or cold. The man hadn't been as amazed by the system of the plumbing, as he was of the water – tasteless and crystal clear, the sort one couldn't taste outside some exotic, distant, untouched natural fountains.

"I understand that you have some concerns as far as the bond goes, Captain?" Croaker asked without bothering with pleasantries, after entering the room. "Healer Honeycutt mentioned also that you might have some additional information about it that we're not aware of."

"I might, indeed," Harry agreed, finishing tying his neck cloth, and then turning to the man thoughtfully – Croaker was wearing the same dark cloak as he had been the last time, and in Harry's dreams. Odd fashion choice, for May – was it the unspeakable uniform, or something of the sort? "I have some reservations however."

"Concerning?" the man asked, coming forward and sitting down.

"Confidentiality. And… safety, I suppose," the aviator said, and sat down onto the bed he had been occupying so far. "You understand that I do not want the bond I have to the other world tampered with?"

"Yes. And I think I have some idea about why, now," Croaker said slowly, eyeing him and frowning. "I did nothing, as I promised, but your demand made me curious," he explained when Harry raised his eyebrow. "We are still a bit rough in using the portal, I admit that, and the only reason we could so easily find you was because you were still magically attached. But I can't say it was hard to do it again, this time using you as the lead, rather than the lingering magical effect."

Harry frowned. "And what did you discover?" he asked, though he already knew.

"Your bond does not connect you to the other world in general, but to one dragon in particular. The Hungarian Horntail that with you first opened the portal," Croaker said, and folded his arms. "A magical bond with a dragon. Telepathic, perhaps?"

"It's rather more than that," Harry said slowly, trying to gauge the man's intentions and opinions about the bond – but Croaker gave away nothing. "Do the unspeakable follow the codes of confidentiality?" he then asked. Or would he find the knowledge Croaker had used in some means against him, the bond as leverage in the Ministry's hands to force him to work?

"The very basic concept behind Unspeakables is confidentiality – we work with projects people don't know exist, we untangle magics people can't even imagine. You and your return is our most widely known project, thanks to the Ministry's general interference, and because your disappearance made such a wide splash," Croaked said. He sounded rather irritated about it. "I am under no obligations to reveal my findings to the Ministry – or to anyone else."

"But you can do so if you so choose?" the aviator enquired.

"I could," Croaker admitted. "But usually it is better all around that people above the lower levels of the Department of Mysteries know as little as possible. Especially the Minister," he said and then leaned forward. "I can promise you that whatever I know and find out about your bond with the Hungarian Horntail will not go beyond you and me, Captain, if that is what you want."

"Promises are cheap, coming from strangers," Harry answered, unimpressed. "I'd rather you swear it."

Croaker let out a laugh at that, but it wasn't a malicious laugh. Shaking his head, the man pulled out his wand, and held the tip to his heart. "I, Agnus Croaker, Chief of the Department of Mysteries and of the Unspeakables, swear by my magic and life that whatever I know or learn about the magical bond between Harry James Potter, and one Hungarian Horntail, I will keep to myself." He said, and the wand tip glowed golden. "There. Satisfied?"

"Not really. I have no idea if that actually worked – I don't know how magical swearing or vowing functions," Harry admitted, making Croaker laugh again.

"Well. I have no intention of telling anyone at any rate. I very rarely do – that's not my business," the man said, and put his wand away. "I think you better tell me anyway. You're worried about something – and you have Honeycutt all fussy and she doesn't get fussy easily."

Harry shook his head, a bit amused. "Does she work for you?" he asked curiously. "I thought I perceived that her understanding over the Department went a bit beyond mere awareness."

"Used to be an Unspeakable herself, once. She's our go-to-healer when ever something goes wrong at the Department," Croaker admitted.

"I see," the aviator said and nodded. It made sense. "Alright," he then decided. "Let me tell you about the bond."

While he explained, the unspeakable took out his wand again, and waved it several times over him, silently casting unseen spells and frowning at whatever he learned. While doing so, Croaker asked quite a bit more details than Honeycutt had, and about different things. How long had it taken Harry to lose the nausea in the beginning, and could he immediately move the bodies separately, or did it take time to learn, and when one body was hurt, did the other feel it, and when one was hungry, did the other get hungry as well, and so forth. He was especially curious about the fact that Harry and Horntail could, when in the same world, sleep separately and when they did, one of them could actually _see_ the dreams of the other.

"I figured rather early on that our minds worked differently," Harry said. "When this body sleeps and Horntail is the only one awake, I think differently – she has a much more straight forward mind, and doesn't linger on details the way I do. I actually sometimes used it to my advantage – I have an easier time solving problems and coming up with solutions in her body. My human body on other hand has a better mind for details, and for ideas, and I can come up with notions easier as a human, than as a dragon."

"That is fascinating," Croaker murmured, drumming his chin with his fingers, his other hand tucked beneath his elbow. "Is there a range for the bond, do you know? What is the farthest length you've been apart, and did it affect you in any way?"

"About a hundred miles I think, maybe more – and no, it didn't," Harry said. "Distance has never been something I have been concerned about with the bond – not since the beginning."

"The separation of worlds strains the bond," Croaker assumed.

"When I am awake, she sleeps, and the reverse. And should the sleeper be awoken out of turn, the awakening is a bit difficult – and the one previously awake falls instantly asleep," Harry explained, a bit frustrated but not overly worried. It could be worse, and aside from the disorientation, it wasn't too uncomfortable, even if inconvenient. "I am not concerned, as it seems to be the only side effect of the separation, but the effect is rather like narcolepsy and problematic. Especially considering the work I was called here to do."

"I'd say," Croaker muttered, and frowned. "If she's awoken, you collapse? Yes, that would be troublesome. Do you think the bond is weaker now, or weakening? Is there any other strain?"

"No, except for the switch – and I cannot feel my other body, when I am myself or Horntail. She could be on fire at this moment, and I doubt I'd know it," the aviator said, frowning a bit.

"Hm… I will need to study the bond a bit more closely, to figure out the ramifications of this," Croaker said thoughtfully. "If the bond is weakening, or worse yet draining you… we might need to bring Horntail to this world as well. However, we might loose the lock we have on that other world if we do – the portal has kept a steady link to that particular universe and to that particular time because of your bond so far, if we remove the link, the dragon…."

"I'd rather you didn't," Harry said, uncomfortably. "I want to return there."

"Yes, I got that," Croaker said and for a long while he was quiet, considering it. Then, a decision made, he ran a hand through his hair, the look of serious contemplation easing. "Well, there is nothing I can or dare to do before I know more. I need to study this thing a bit more. I'll give my recommendation to the Ministry that you be left in peace for a while – until we know more. Say, two, three days. How does that sound?"

"Splendid. It will give me time to regain my footing here," Harry said, relaxing a bit. "And you swear not to tamper with the bond?"

"I promise – I'll only study it, and I can do that without making any sort of effect. Actually, at this point, I don't know if I even could – this sounds a bit like soul magic and once affixed, soul magic is _very_ hard to tamper with," Croaker said, and stood. "I'll tell Honeycutt that she can safely release you – I think we can trust you to be careful and not get yourself killed because of the narcolepsy."

"I shall be in company, and I will tell my companions to look out for sudden… attacks of that sort," the aviator said.

"Good. I'll keep you informed about my findings," Croaker said.

"Ah, before you go, I did have one more concern," Harry said, quickly. "When you took Lieutenant Laurence and I from the other world, you wouldn't have happened to bring our effects with us? Particularly, a pair of pistols and a cutlass in a black scabbard? I am rather fond of them."

"Oh. Oh, yes, I completely forgot. We have the whole boat," the other man said, letting out a dry laugh. "It didn't seem as important at the time, as getting you to hospital and keeping the muggle from having a fit did. I can have the items sent to you, if you'd like."

"I'd like it very much, thank you," Harry nodded, though he couldn't help but wonder if any of them would be any use – especially the muskets. He did have some powder cartridges and musket balls on his person, of course, but… once those would ran out, it would be difficult, trying to reload.

Croaker took his leave with the barest of farewells after making the promise of sending the effects to Harry within the day. Soon after Laurence exited the bathroom, his sun bleached hair slightly wet, but already wearing a full set of clothing. "Does every establishment have such plumbing as this, sir, or is it just hospitals?" he asked curiously.

"Hm? Oh, no. It is rather universal here, though of course there are some poorer countries without such modern advantages, naturally," Harry answered, absent minded, still thinking of Croaker. A few day's grace from the Ministry would do him well, although he rather wanted to get the legal contract drawn as soon as possible – but, perhaps the time would do him some good there too, give him time to consider options and possibilities.

 He looked up as the door to the room was opened and Honeycutt entered with Lupin at her heels. "Well then, Captain Potter," she said. "I'll just want another look at your stomach, and after that you're released. Mr. Lupin here says that he's going to be escorting you."

"Yes, that was the plan," Harry agreed and obediently laid back so that the healer could run her wand over him and perform her magical scans. They didn't take long, and at the end of them the woman nodded with satisfaction.

"I am still not fully confident about releasing you, not with the narcolepsy, but apparently there is nothing I can do about that," she said then. "Now, do you think you can manage the fits?"

"I only fall asleep, I don't go into seizures, so the only danger there is, is that I might fall over badly. But, I hope that I will be keeping in company from now on and should an attack such as yesterday occur, someone might be there to stop me from hurting myself," Harry said calmly.

"You're very casual about it," Honeycutt said, reproving.

"There is nothing I can do about it, currently," Harry shrugged. "And fretting over things I cannot change has never helped me much. The only thing I am truly concerned over is my lack of eye glasses," he admitted with a frown. He had not thought of it before, no need when there was no terrible need to see details, but now that he was about to leave…. He had his goggles, of course, but they were rather awkward and not quite as keen as one might hope. "Pray tell, can St. Mungos provide anything of the sort?"

"Certainly. You should've told me sooner that you needed them," the woman said, frowning while pulling out her wand once more. "Hold your head still and I will have a look."

The look included casting spells into Harry's eyes, but he did not mind, as she seemed to be doing no damage to his vision and seemed to know her business. She did scowl and berate him, however, but he was getting used to that and paid it no mind, waiting for her verdict.

"Yes, you do need eye glasses, rather badly," the woman finally pronounced. "Sit still for a moment, Captain, I will be right back."

She was – a mere ten minutes later, she carried back with her a pair of dark rimmed spectacles, oval shaped rather than round. They were ill fitting, but she adjusted them with a flick of her wand, and then they were quite splendid – and, indeed, far better than his original pair, left behind in the other world.

"Oh. I am most grateful, sure," Harry said, after turning his head this way and that to get used to them. "How much do I owe you? I'm afraid I have no purse with me, and no notion of the state of my capital, but…."

"No, no. The Ministry is paying for everything, no need to worry," Honeycutt said, shaking her head.

"Very well. Thank you," Harry said and then looked at her. "With this matter settled, all that remains is this; am I released, Healer Honeycutt?"

"Yes, with my objections," the woman said, and stepped back so that he could stand. "Just don't crack your skull open the next time you fall asleep."

"I shall do my utmost to avoid it, I promise you," Harry said, smoothing a hand over the front of his coat. He was about as presentable as he was going to get – which in this world meant very little of course. No one had seriously worn a uniform such as his in over a hundred years, after all. But it would have to do. "Shall we go?" he asked Lupin, and then, "How are we going at any rate? Via Fire?"

"No, I have a car in the back – I'm going to drive us," Lupin said. "There's still a swarm of reporters about the place, and getting to where we're going through magical means might be a bit difficult, so a car is the safest option.”

"Alright," Harry nodded, glancing at Laurence, who looked between them somewhat hesitantly. "Lieutenant, I realise I haven't so far given you much of a chance to object and indeed you would be hard pressed to do so, considering that you know very little of this world," he said, a bit awkward himself. "But I suppose you will be joining us?"

"Yes, sir, of course," the man said, relaxing slightly.

"Good," the aviator nodded, and turned to Lupin. "Let's go."

Laurence had to pause a bit when they entered the street behind St. Mungos Hospital of Magical Maladies. Harry gave him the moment without making a fuss about it, and let the man stare at the street and its lamp posts, signs both on poles and painted onto the asphalt, the garbage bins – and of course, the cars, which the man stared at for a long while in some bewilderment.

"It's… quite clean, here," the man murmured, apparently at a loss.

"Sewer systems and efficient waste management," Harry explained gently. "As well as the lack of horses. Come, Lieutenant. There will be time for explanations, later."

The car waiting for them was rather old and somewhat rustic, but it seemed serviceable enough. Lupin unlocked the doors quickly and took the driver's seat, while Harry and Laurence sat in the back – Harry more to give the poor lieutenant some moral support, than because of any distain of sitting in the front. If a quiet backstreet bewildered the man, traffic would no doubt give him quite a shock.

Lupin lifted a single eyebrow at Harry's choice of seats, but nodded when Harry glanced at the Navy officer meaningfully, and said nothing about it as he started the car. "It'll be a bit of a way, until we make it to Grimmauld Place," he said, somewhat apologetic.

"Trust me, it will be fast enough," Harry said with a mild smile – the last time he had been moving about London, it had been in a carriage, much slower than any modern vehicle. He glanced at the lieutenant, who had grabbed a hold of the seat, his eyes a bit wide – he obviously didn't know what to think about the car's thrumming. And when Lupin backed away from the alley, his face went pale.

"Lieutenant? It is alright – I assure you, it's quite safe," Harry said quietly.

"But how does it move?" the man asked, peering around him in confusion, looking rather like he wished he could see horses somewhere.

"It is a mechanical construct. A machine," the aviator explained. "It has an engine that turns the wheels – Professor Lupin steers it with the wheel there, and the levers," he pointed to the front.

"Engine?" Laurence asked helplessly, and then he saw the street they had just entered – and the other cars, moving about. His mouth opened a bit, but no sound came, and for a moment he just looked, craning his head back and forth to follow cars as they passed them by on their lanes.

Harry tried to explain about cars and the concept of motor traffic the best he could – the rules and guidelines of driving and how the cars, to Laurence's unaccustomed eye, seemed to be moving with such harmony. Which, considering the type of traffic London had in seventeen ninety six, with carriages and carts going whichever way they chose and only avoiding each others and pedestrians by luck and quick manoeuvring, was rather remarkable.

Then Laurence saw one of London's newer buildings at a distance, a construction of steel with mirror like windows, some six hundred feet tall, and the man was struck speechless once more. Which was probably good, as he thus avoided seeing a group of young women crossing the street just ahead of them, wearing what to him would've been rather scandalous types of clothing – trousers and such.

It was a relief when they finally made it to what Harry assumed was Grimmauld place – it was a street of mostly older buildings, and not that different from what one might've seen in seventeen ninety six. Lupin drove the car down a street, surrounded on both sides by residential buildings, before bringing the car to a halt. "Grimmauld place is just there, between those two, though you can't see it unless you concentrate onto the location – the spell it's under keeps it well hidden," he said, pointing. "I need to take the car away, but there should be someone – ah, there he is," he said, when a man appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and walked closer to them. "That's Mundungus – he'll show you inside."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, and opened the door. "Will you be joining us later?"

"I'll be there in half an hour or so," the man promised, giving a somewhat sympathetic look at Laurence, who was pale, wide eyed and somewhat absent minded as Harry beckoned him to follow. "Professor Dumbledore should be waiting for you inside, with the others," he added.

"Thank you," Harry added again, and once Laurence was safely out, he closed the door and watched Lupin drive away, before turning to the rather shabby looking man, who was approaching them. "Mr. Mundungus, I presume?"

"Mister, my arse. It's Mundungus Fletcher," the man said, grinning lopsidedly, even while giving Harry, Laurence and their uniforms a curious look. "Welcome back, Potter," he added.

"Thank you," the aviator said. "I believe we should go inside, before our clothing attracts notice."

"Right you are," Fletcher said, and turned. "Now, look right there, and think of the location. Dumbledore wrote you a note, right? Think it hard."

It didn't require all that arduous thinking. Harry only had to recall the letter Dumbledore had shown him, and the effect was instant, and quite startling. It seemed almost as if two of the houses before him were being shoved out of the way by the third in between, which shouldered itself into existence by sheer force – except, of course, it couldn't really have happened that way. Surely it was just some form of illusion, unlocked by him knowing that it was in fact there.

"Lieutenant," Harry said, snapping Laurence out of his brown study, when the lieutenant kept facing away, not listening. "Kindly concentrate onto the address I showed you yesterday."

"Yes, sir," the elder male said, a little dry voiced, and frowned. He reacted a bit more violently to the apparition of the hidden house, taking a step back and drawing a sharp breath, but at Harry's firm look he quickly composed himself – as well as he could at any rate.

"You both see it, then? Good, let's go inside," Fletcher said, and led them up the staircase, and to the door, which he knocked on vigorously for a moment.

Harry wasn't sure what he expected – perhaps for the door to be opened by Dumbledore, or possibly by Shacklebolt. But it wasn't – instead, it was a more familiar and far more dear figure, that the door opened to reveal, and Harry was for a moment struck as speechless st the Lieutenant, when his eyes fell upon Mrs. Weasley's figure. She was just as he remembered her, violently red haired, plump, round faced and warm, even if with a hint of tiredness about her eyes – and for a moment, the aviator was struck by a memory of her warm welcome, the two times he had been a guest in her house.

She, having been intending to say something judging by the way she had drawn breath just as she opened the door, fell silent at the sight of him, her eyes widening. Then she let out a small, "oh!" and flung the door completely open. "Harry, dear!"

It was the first time in longer than Harry cared to count that anyone had hugged him. The sensation was more startling than comforting, and he went completely stiff in her arms, stiff and shocked. Before he could quite relax, she was already drawing him inside, a startled looking Laurence following as she called. "He's here! He's here!"

Harry didn't get much of a chance to look at the house's interior, as he was soon swarmed by people. Mrs. Wealsey was joined by Mr. Weasley, then there were several people Harry didn't know, and probably had never met – he caught a glimpse of a woman with purple hair and felt a momentary spike of concern – and then there was a man, coming down a flight of stairs, familiar but different from what the aviator remembered.

"Harry!" the animagus called, was given a way, and then Harry was in his second embrace in countless months, his wide eyes for a moment staring at Sirius's shoulder, before he looked up.

Yes, it was Sirius, though wholly changed. Gone was the hollow look, the thinness – the look in his eyes was still empty and oddly cavernous, and it was like staring into an abyss, but the rest… the rest was different. The man was clean shaven, his long hair tied back, his clothing neat, clean, fitting.

"Sirius," Harry said, when the man released him to look at him with a frown, still keeping his hands at the aviator's shoulders. "I… you look well."

"Merlin, you look better. You've grown, what, three, four inches? And you're brown as a nut!" the man said, grinning widely, and then frowning. "What happened to your face?"

Then the noise, that had momentarily stalled when Sirius had entered the hall, returned. Someone clapped Harry by the shoulder, and his hand was shaken by someone else, and people were talking. "What was the other world like?" someone asked, and "Are you hungry, we have dinner on the way," and "Good to have you back!" and "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter," and "Whose the other bloke?" and then it all overlapped too much for coherency.

"Alright, that is enough!" a voice boomed over the noise, and they all looked up the stairs, to see Dumbledore coming down with an amused expression about his face. "Captain Potter, welcome to Grimmauld place. And you, Lieutenant."

"Thank you sir," Harry answered, while around him the wizards and witches exchanged lifted eyebrows and confused looks.

"Captain?" Sirius was the one who voiced the question, looking down at Harry's clothing, before glancing at Laurence, who Harry noticed was lingering by the door way, looking rather like he might bolt back outside any moment.

"Yes," the aviator said, clearing his throat, and looking up at Dumbledore, expectantly. These weren't his people, so he couldn't demand discipline out of them.

"Let us go to the dining hall," Dumbledore said, smiling. "I believe discussion will be much more comfortable there."

Somewhat reluctantly, the people crowding around Harry turned and in ones and twos trickled out of the hall, until only Harry, Dumbledore, Sirius and Laurence were left.

"Was the medical matter that held you back before resolved, Captain?" Dumbledore asked.

"Croaker is working on it, but I am still likely to suffer a narcoleptic attack at any given time," Harry shrugged. "It is not dangerous in of itself and nothing to be alarmed about, but I would take it as a favour if those around me would watch out for it and make sure I don't hit my head."

"Narcolepsy?" Sirius asked, frowning.

"It has to do with my bond to the other world," Harry shrugged, and turned around to look at Laurence, who had regained his composure but was still somewhat wild about the eyes. Harry gave the man a sympathetic smile and turned to Dumbledore who was considering him worriedly.

"Well. We can talk about that and its ramifications later," the headmaster said, and motioned Harry to follow. "This way."

The other wizards and witches were all seated, more or less, when they made it to the dining hall, but the chairs at the end of the long table had been left free. Dumbledore, unlike Harry had expected, didn't take the seat directly at the head of the table, but motioned Harry to it, himself sitting beside it. Sirius took the seat on the other side, which left Laurence with a seat at Dumbledore's left side. The lieutenant hesitated however when Dumbledore amiably pointed the seat out, and Harry's earlier worry returned as he saw that the seat beside the empty seat had been taken by the purple haired woman.

"Try and keep an open mind, and please, do not take offence from what might be said, to me or to you," Harry said leaned to say to Laurence under his breath. "The codes of conduct and ethics of society are different here and I am sure no one would actually mean to offend."

"Yes, sir," Laurence murmured back, hesitating a while longer, his eyes on the woman's purple hair.

Harry chuckled. "No need to be so alarmed – it is only hair, Lieutenant," he said, and then turned to take his seat.

An expectant silence fell then, and Harry was on the receiving end of everyone's stares. It was nothing he hadn't experienced in the Royal Aerial Corps – people tended to stare, when they found out that a boy of sixteen was the captain of a fire breathing heavy weight – so he bore the curious looks calmly.

"So," he said, breaking the silence himself when no one else seemed inclined to do so. "You are the Order of the Phoenix."

"Yes, though this isn't all of our members. Allow me to introduce everyone," Dumbledore said, standing up so that he could see all in the table. He introduced the purple haired woman first – Nymphadora Tonks – and then the black haired woman in robes beside her – Hestia Jones. Harry had already met Mundungus, then there was a man called Dedalus Diggle, who looked faintly familiar. Then there was Elphias Doge, an elderly wizard with a mostly bald head, and another witch, Emmeline Vance, who had long brown hair pinned back. The rest Harry knew, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and of course, Sirius, and Dumbledore himself.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Harry said politely, nodding his head. "I suppose I do not require introductions, but this is Lieutenant William Laurence, of His Majesty's Royal Navy – he is from the other world," he added, motioning at Laurence, who stood and bowed his head, not saying a word.

"The Navy?" Doge asked, eyeing Laurence curiously as the lieutenant sat back down.

"I suppose that's why he's wearing such a dishy uniform," Tonks said, grinning at Laurence's outraged expression and then turning to Harry. "Why are you wearing one, though? Are you in the Navy too – is that why Dumbledore calls you captain?"

"The Navy? Good god, no," Harry said, laughing and then wincing a bit as Laurence stiffened, his shoulder straightening. Quickly he hastened to explain, trying to lessen the insult. "I would like to see the day the Navy would make a captain out of a sixteen year old – no, I'm in His Majesty's Aerial Corps, in the other world."

"Why would you join the military?" Sirius asked, frowning.

"The alternative wasn't quite as interesting," Harry shrugged, glancing over the group and then at Dumbledore, who was resting his folded hands on the table, eyeing him with amiable curiosity. He decided that he might as well get the story out of the way – they all seemed eager to know, and apparently Dumbledore had seen fit not to explain things to them. So, drawing a deep breath, he started, "I suppose you all know of my leap to the other world?"

"I don't think there’s anyone in the magical world who doesn't know," Sirius said, folding his arms and eyeing him.

"What happened to you there, Harry dear? Were you alright?" Mrs. Weasley asked a bit fretfully.

"I was well enough," Harry said, and started his story with, "I wasn't alone. The dragon, the Hungarian Horntail, came with me to the other world you see… which made the world we fell into a very fortunate happenstance for us, for there were quite a quantity of dragons there."

They all listened, a few of them looking like they would've liked to interject a question or exclamation, but Dumbledore's look silenced them. Laurence's insulted expression softened a bit, fading into curiosity as Harry progressed from his story, from the days spent in the forest to being found by the Aerial Corps, of being escorted to the Loch Laggan training covert, and discovering what the Aerial Corps and their dragons were about. Mention of Celeritas brought a mild frown to Laurence's face and people leaned closer, as Harry continued with his explanation of the few choices he and Horntail had, and their decision to join the Aerial Corps, before continuing with some random details about his training.

He did not tell them that he and Horntail were one – only that the transport to the other world had bonded them with closer ties than those of normal dragons in that world.

"And you've been in these _Aerial Corps_ since then?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking bewildered.

"Have you been in any battles?" Tonks asked curiously.

"Oh, yes. I've been in active service about a year now. I've been in roughly twenty battles, though most of them were mere skirmishes," Harry said, but at the looks of shock this was received with, he decided not to elaborate – or get into the people killed, dragons brought down, ships damaged or, worse yet, sunk. Or exploded, as it tended to happen with Horntail and her fire.

"In so many battles. Good Merlin," Mrs. Weasley gasped and then smiled a bit shakily. "You're kidding, aren't you, Harry dear?"

The aviator frowned a bit. "I've lost ten good men under my command, and I've seen dozens more die, allies and enemies alike," he said. "I don't _kid_ about such things."

There was a moment of quiet, as no one seemed to be able to decide how to take this - except for Laurence, who nodded in silent agreement, looking away with a distant look about his face. He must've seen men die too – and killed them himself. He, unlike all the rest present, knew exactly how _little_ it was a joking matter.

"Well. We're happy you're back home now," Sirius said, patting Harry's shoulder, albeit a bit awkwardly. "There won't be any dragon battles here."

"No, instead there will be magical ones, or so I hear," Harry agreed, grateful of the opening though also a bit dismayed. He had a feeling that Dumbledore hadn't told these people about his intentions to return either. He pushed it aside for later, to be spoken of when the atmosphere wasn't so strained. "I have heard only a little of the happenings here," he said, looking around. "I would dearly wish to know more about the war here, and of Voldemort's actions."

It was a rather ramshackle report he got from the Order of the Phoenix. Half of them, judging by the looks of it, were uncomfortable discussing such things with him, while other half meandered from one event to another without even attempting to hold onto a coherent time line. Harry listened to explanations about the attack on Azkaban jump to a discussion about how Voldemort returned, to how he must've reacted to the Prophesy – "He was trying to steal it from the Department of Mysteries, before the Ministry just went and published the thing in the papers!" – and then back some twenty five years, and what Voldemort had been doing during the end of the first war.

"Is the Azkaban attack the only hostile action he has taken since his return?" Harry asked finally, frowning.

"The only one we know of," Dumbledore agreed. "We're expecting more from him any day now, though. He is planning something."

His frown darkening, Harry looked from one magician to another, a bit disbelieving. Since the Minister had made his call upon him, he had been under the impression that the war was quite a bit more serious, and that there was some real reason to need his aid – a reason for the _champion_ he was apparently supposed to be, according to the Prophesy.

"One hostile act against a prison," he said finally. "How, precisely, is this a _war_?"

The question seemed to catch everyone unawares, and for a moment they just stared at him, until Dumbledore finally cleared his throat. "It is not, not quite. But it is expected," he said. "Voldemort is gathering allies as we speak, and currently he has at least half a hundred witches and wizards in his service, as well as an unknown number of werewolves, vampires and giants. Plus all of the Dementors of Azkaban. He must've gathered his forces for a _reason_."

Harry leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and considering it. It was hard to try and imagine what a civil war in the wizarding world would be like. The magical world had no _land_ to claim, and he had no idea what the strategic locations were, aside from the Ministry, Diagon Alley and connected streets, and of course Hogsmeade. Would there be any value in the territories of Hosmeade and the alleys in London? He wasn't sure but he rather doubted it.

Perhaps Voldemort would try and claim the Ministry? That would make it not a civil war, but a revolution. Would it work, though? What would be the impact of overthrowing a magical government, when Britain had also a muggle one? He didn't even know what the magical government was like, precisely, how it functioned and how it ruled. Did it have headquarters? Of course, taking a building was only a symbol, one had to take the people as well as the building for the impact to be more than just an idealistic folly. How many members did the Ministry have, and how many of those needed to die for the whole system to collapse? And what kind of protections were in place?

He needed to talk with someone actually _from_ the Ministry, who knew these things.

"Headmaster, pray tell what do you suppose Voldemort will do, once he has his forces gathered?" Harry asked after a moment of thoughtful silence.

The old wizard must've seen some of his thoughts in his face, for he looked quite grim as he answered; "I expect he will try and take the Ministry," he said, making everyone draw a not so quiet breath. Everyone but Laurence, who had a somewhat frustrated look about his face and who no doubt wasn't quite following, not knowing the stakes of what they were talking about.

"And can he?" the aviator asked.

"With the forces he has?" Dumbledore asked, and leaned back in his chair, sighing. "If he has the Ministry infiltrated as badly as we think he does… yes. Yes he can."

Harry frowned and nodded. That was something to start with, he supposed. And, perhaps, something to use to his advantage, if only he could get started quickly enough. "What sort of time frame do we have?" he asked then. "Is there any indication about when he might launch his attack?"

"None, but he has been quiet for a long while," Dumbledore said. "Your arrival, I think, will make him halt for a while. He knows the Prophesy, after all, and therefore…."

"Therefore, he will want me dead even more than before, yes," the aviator nodded. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. "How badly do you reckon he wants me killed?" he asked.

"Harry, dear, please don't talk like that. No one is going to kill you," Mrs. Weasley said plaintively, but he ignored her, looking at Dumbledore instead.

"Rather badly, I think," Dumbledore said, frowning a bit and looking at Harry searchingly. Then his eyebrows lifted, surprise and sudden admiration mingled. "You are thinking of using yourself as a stalling method, to keep him from concentrating on the Ministry."

"The thought occurred, yes," Harry agreed and shook his head. "I think I need to make my contract with the Ministry soon, and get to work even sooner," he said. "It doesn't seem like I ought to waste time. I believe you mentioned a solicitor, when you visited St. Mungos."

"Yes, Alberta Watkins," Dumbledore agreed. "I have sent her a letter and she's expecting you at any time you find suitable – her offices are in Diagon Alley."

"Wait, what contract? Contract with the _Ministry_?" Sirius asked, frowning faintly and looking between Harry and Dumbledore.

"My terms of service," Harry said simply. "The Ministry is inclined to need my services after all, and the matter is too delicate for me to enter into things on the fly, as it was… therefore a contract will be drawn."

"You shouldn't sign any contract with the Ministry, Harry. They're more likely to screw you over than honour it – or they have some stupid demands."

"All the demands so far are mine, not theirs – I demanded the contract," the aviator said and looked at Dumbledore. "Which I expected the headmaster to inform this group about, but I suppose I was mistaken."

"I felt it would have more weight, coming from your own mouth, Captain," the headmaster said calmly.

Harry lifted his eyebrows at that, and shook his head. "At any rate, I should like to talk with the solicitor as soon as possible, and get things moving on that score," he said, drumming his fingers against his elbow before unfolding his arms. "I would also like to talk with Mr. Shacklebolt, if that can be arranged. He is in this Order as well, isn’t he?"

"Yes he is," Dumbledore nodded. "He doesn't come around that often, however, as he has many duties in the Ministry – but I will let him know you wish to talk with him."

"Why do you want to talk to Shack for?" the purple haired witch asked curiously.

"He seemed like a capable fellow and I wish to know more about the Ministry's defences and strengths. If I am to fight this… war, I should know as much as possible."

"Shouldn't you rather be preparing to return to Hogwarts?" someone asked, and with a blink Harry turned to face the woman – Emmaline Vance – who had made the remark. "I mean," the woman floundered. "Sure, there is war coming, and all, but you were taken near the beginning of your fourth year in school. There is no way you know enough spells to start fighting – not to mention the rest of the things you need to learn. Transfiguration, charms, as well as battle magic."

Harry blinked and then raised his eyebrows, while some others around the table nodded, Mrs. Weasley looking decisively relieved. "I'm afraid that I won't be returning to the school," Harry then said, a little astonished that it had even been suggested. "Good god, where do you imagine I would find the time for that sort of thing, if Voldemort is likely to launch an attack at any moment? And magical schooling would be quite wasted on me – I am incapable of using magic."

"What?!" the cry was nearly unanimous, and few people even stood up, all their eyes wide, their faces horrified.

"Yes," Harry said, as calmly as he could, even though he felt like frowning. "My magic is bound to the other world. Pre-occupied, according to the Unspeakables – and for as long as it remains so, I will not be able to apply it to anything. Indeed, it is unlikely I ever again will be capable of such feats."

"But… can't the bond be dissolved? The Unspeakables must be able to –"

"I forbade it, and I have intentions of including it into the contract. I will not do a thing for the Ministry, if that bond is tampered with," Harry said firmly, no longer holding back his frown – which was more a scowl, than a frown. "The bond is my connection to Horntail and I would not lose it for the world. Magic is a small thing to sacrifice, for that connection."

"A _dragon_ is better than magic?!" Elphias Doge asked, horrified and a little disturbed, and he wasn't the only one. Quite few of the Order of the Phoenix looked like they were about to start shouting in objection.

"Yes. She is," Harry said and stood, making all the others quiet down – a few of them even sank back to their seats under his severe glare, more used to staring down hardened men than this sorry lot was to receiving such looks. "I had no interest in returning here, I only agreed under duress. I made my home in the other world – and, indeed, I have every intention of returning there. And stay _ing_ there," he added firmly, his voice steady but strong, leaving no room for any arguments. "Magic means little to me – I have not missed it in the past year and half, nor do I miss it now. Your war is only a task for me to accomplish, that will allow my return _home_."

"B-but how can you fight Voldemort without magic?" Hestia Jones asked, baffled.

"By commanding others, I should think," Harry answered and straightened his back. "The Prophesy spoke of a _power the dark lord knows not_ , did it not? What sort of magic do you suppose I could learn at this point that Voldemort does not already know?" he waited for a moment, and no one answered. "No," the aviator said, shaking his head. "The power I have, that he does not know, is clear. My military training, my experience as a commander, as brief as my career so far has been. Or perhaps it is the ability to fire a musket accurately at a hundred paces or slice a man through with a cutlass. I doubt Voldemort is skilled in fencing."

He snorted and shook his head, turning to Dumbledore. "Or what do you think, Headmaster?" he asked. "Should I, useless as I am with magic, return to Hogwarts to waste my time in lessons, while I could be gathering intelligence and planning strategies? Hm?"

The headmaster eyed him seriously for a moment and then stood. "I believe Captain Potter," he said, addressing the Order in general while putting an emphasis the rank, "is quite right. The experience and expertise he now has, what he gained in the other world, is much more valuable than any magic, under the current circumstances. And, I believe, much more useful. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is already contemplating the idea of putting a squad of Aurors under the Captain's command. And, I believe, the Order would do well to do the same, once the time comes."

"It is? I mean, the Department is going to put Potter in command?" Tonks asked, surprised. "Why haven't I heard about that?"

"Because you're off duty, and the planning only started yesterday," the headmaster explained with amusement and shook his head. "I have no doubt that Kingsley will tell us more, once he has the chance to come by."

"Why Potter, though?" Elphias Doge asked thoughtfully. "Why not put the Auror squad under you, Headmaster, if under someone."

"I do not have military training," Dumbledore said, half grim and half amused. "Nor am I named in a Prophesy. Harry is. That alone makes him qualified for such an attempt."

A small moment of silence followed that, while Harry tried not to be too irritated about the fact that it was the Prophesy that made him more qualified, rather than his training. But if it made the thought easier to handle for the wizards in the room and make them less likely to argue then he would abide with it, gladly.

Wizards maybe. There was one witch in the crowd not so easily mollified. "I can't believe this," Mrs. Weasley said suddenly. "He is sixteen year old! A _child_ – you can't, he shouldn't be –"

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry cut in softly, cutting her spluttering short, not brooking any objections of _that_ sort. Not even from her. "Be so good as to hold your tongue. I have not been a child for a long while."

"But Harry –" she said plaintively, reaching her hands towards him. "You've only just come home –"

"No. I've been drawn away from my home," he said, his quiet, steady voice silencing the rest of the Order's objections. "And you might as well get used to the idea that I am willing – that I most certainly _will_ – fight and, if I must, kill to get back there."


	14. Part II, Chapter XIV

Of course, there wasn't much discussion to be had once Harry was done shocking the Order of the Phoenix – except in whispers and sidelong looks. Dumbledore broke the meeting apart soon after, saying he wished a private word or two with the Weasleys, and that perhaps Sirius would like to show Harry and Laurence to the rooms they'd be staying in, if they would be staying with the Order.

"What does he mean, _if_? Of course you’ll be staying here," Sirius muttered, while leading Harry and the silent lieutenant up to the upper floors, where he showed them a pair of rooms – not exactly large but much more spacious than either of the two the military men were used to, with Harry's room even having enough space for a bookshelf, table and a couple of chairs. "Arthur's and Molly's kids stay here, when there's Order business and the kids have holiday."

"Ah, yes, they must be at Hogwarts right now," Harry mused. "And I imagine Dumbledore might suspect that we shall be staying in some accommodations of our own, a rented room or perhaps the Ministry might offer something. I will be no doubt be working primarily with them, so a close location would be useful."

"Hippogriff dung. You'll stay here and you can always use the Floo, whenever you need to go somewhere," Sirius said, looking between Harry and Laurence who hovered about, looking decidedly uncomfortable. The animagus hesitated, and Harry took the hint.

"Lieutenant," he said, turning to Laurence. "Would you give us a moment?"

"Yes, of course, sir," the man said, looking a bit relieved, and with a nod that was only a little short of a confused bow, he hurried to the room Sirius had pointed to him, closing the door behind him.

"He's a muggle, right?" Sirius asked. "And from the other world. I heard something about that, but I wasn't sure if it was true. Didn't get the reason why he's here, though. Is he under your command?"

"I am his superior in rank, but not exactly his superior officer – he is in the Navy while I am from the Aerial Corps, they're two quite separate services," Harry answered, walking to the table and sitting down with a sigh. "When the Unspeakables came for me, we were in the same boat quite literally – just a day or two back, I had been evacuated from a British ship that was taken by the French – the Normandy – on board which the Lieutenant served. Without him, and the captain of the ship, I have no doubt I should have been captured."

"Why were you on a ship, if you're, what was it, a _dragon_ captain?" Sirius asked, now looking curious, though still worried.

"I was wounded in action – a musket shot to the stomach, which is why I was sent to St. Mungos upon my arrival in this world. My surgeon couldn't even begin to treat me on dragon back, and thought that the ship's surgeon would have a better chance at saving me," Harry answered and shrugged his shoulders at the look Sirius gave him. "But, enough about that. How have things really been on this side? How have you been?"

"Better. Still thought to be a mass murdering lunatic, but better," the animagus sighed, straightening his legs and leaning back. "Dumbledore called the Order together just a little while after you went missing, and I offered them the use of this place – it's my childhood home," he explained when Harry gave him a interested look. "Not much of a place, been empty for almost ten years now and it shows, but it's habitable. Molly has been cleaning it up and thanks to Dumbledore and his Fidelius, its safe."

"I should say so," Harry mused, thinking of the way the house had appeared, pushing forth as if through reality itself. "It seems to be doing you some good, though, I must say," he added, giving his godfather a look. Sirius must've put on at least a stone and a half, and it looked good on him. Not to mention about the general tidiness of his appearance, so different from the dirty raggedness of that night, two years ago.

"Can't deny that – it is more comfortable than being on the run. Definitely better than Azkaban," Sirius muttered, with an odd, distant scowl. "And since Hermione lost her temper last Christmas, we've had less noise too, thank Merlin – oh, and by the way, if you see an old house elf about, ignore him."

Harry blinked and then raised his eyebrows. "Hermione Granger?" he asked slowly, wondering. Was she in the Order of the Phoenix too? "How does her loosing her temper attribute to the lack of noise?"

"Ah, yes. We used to have some… very noisy portraits about." Sirius said, a glimpse of mirth coming to his face. "My mother, among them. She would howl at all hours, shouting abuse at anything that happened to come across her portrait. That was, of course, before Hermione fetched a bucket of paint remover from some muggle store. Threw it right at the portrait – it dissolved. Pity I didn't have a camera…."

Harry blinked and shook his head, not really understanding, but it didn't seem that important. "So, you live here then? You and the rest of the Order?"

"The others come and go – Molly is here often enough, keeping up the place, since we have some traffic with members going in and out. Every now and then someone might stay over the night – Remus is here pretty often, whenever he's not busy with other things. But for the most part it's just me," the animagus agreed grimly. "And of course, I can't go anywhere else."

The aviator nodded slowly. "I see. Pray tell, what is the Order exactly? I understand that you are some form of underground movement, a group of freedom fighters even, but… I would appreciate some details, if you could be so kind."

Sirius nodded and then gave him an odd look. "Do you know you talk pretty weirdly?" the older male asked, giving him a slightly amused look. "Pray tells and indeed and I should thinks. All polite and refined."

"Well, it is the mode of the society I have kept," Harry shrugged. "It was either to learn some manners or to be thought an uncouth half-wit – and denied proper command. I decided I’d better learn. Now, about the Order…."

The animagus shook his head, still looking amused, but the smile was quick to fade. "Dumbledore started the Order during the first war. The Ministry's forces were in shambles back then, and no one was doing more than firing spells into the dark where Voldemort was concerned – there was no real opposing force," he then said. "I think Dumbledore got his idea from the Advance Guard – it was a similar group during the forties, back when Grindelwald was prancing around the continent. Anyway, he started the Order and as soon as we – that is, James, Remus, Lily, Peter and I – graduated, he approached us about it – there was already some twenty members then and…"

Harry listened silently as Sirius explained how the Order had been formed and what it had done – which was to say, much and very little all at once. There were no true battles, more skirmishes, between them and Voldemort's forces – the Order's primary tool was information, they gathered it however they could, spying mostly and then used what they knew to help. They saved, according to Sirius, some twenty whole families from Voldemort's attacks – in a few cases, they even helped those families get out of the isles – but as far as Harry could tell, they weren't a _fighting_ force.

And definitely not a very well organised one. Though they had fought, it was mostly in ones or twos, or to cover flight or evacuation. Never to a stalemate, never to a victory or defeat.

"Can you tell me about the current members?" Harry asked then, wondering if they were any use at all.

"Well, you know me, Remus, Dumbledore and the Weasleys. Then there is all those downstairs, of course – plus Kingsley. Molly's and Arthur's kids, of course, though we haven't let the twins or Ron and Ginny into the meetings, naturally," Sirius said and made a face. "Professor McGonagall is in it too, but she rarely comes, too busy at Hogwarts I suppose. Then there’s Snape."

"Professor Snape?" Harry asked, with some surprise.

"Yes. He's our spy. He was, or is, who the hell knows which it is really, a Death Eater – one of Voldemort's marked followers. He goes to the meetings and brings back information. Though of course, there haven't been that many meetings, according to him, and nothing he's told us has been much good so far," Sirius snorted.

"A spy," the aviator murmured. And Severus Snape at that. He didn't have all that many good memories of the man – or _any_ , to be truthful – but that did not signify. A _spy_ in Voldemort's ranks – that was an advantage he had not expected. "How are the Order members in terms of skills and abilities?" he asked then.

"Like what – how good duellists they are?" Sirius asked and shook his head. "Kingsley and Tonks are brilliant of course – they're Aurors and Tonks is a bit clumsy but she knows what she's doing. Remus and I are okay, of course, and Snape is a duelling champion, but the rest…. Well, Hestia knows what she's doing with a wand, she went through the Auror academy though she never actually became one. Dumbledore and McGonagall are what they are, I think it would take Kingsley, Tonks and Snape together to take down McGonagall, and none of us could touch Dumbledore even if we went at it all together. Bill's alright and knows some really nasty curses, and Molly used to be… but I think motherhood mellowed it out of her. That's about it."

"Hmm…" Harry hummed, leaning back where he sat and considering it, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of special abilities and quantity of attacks. He would need to find out soon, whether the methods of fighting he knew were any use with magic.

"Harry," Sirius said to the stretching silence, his voice low. "Do you really want to go back there? To the other world?"

"Yes," the aviator said absently, still thinking.

"Why?"

It was more the tone of voice than the question that made Harry look up, and at the serious, troubled face of his godfather. The question seemed to be asking for a deeper reason than the one he had given so far – which was to say, any reason, since he hadn't really explained his desires to the Order, hadn't felt it to be of any use.

"I made a life there," the aviator said. "I have a career I am proud of, men I trust and respect, and a purpose. I have great, dear friends, bonds formed in the fires of the war there, and of course… I have Horntail. And I am not whole without her."

Sirius didn't look convinced at that, making Harry smile crookedly. "What do I have here, Sirius?" he asked. "My family here can hardly tolerate me, and my friends were dear but juvenile. You? When I went there, I had only known you for some smattering of months, and been in your company only for a few sparse hours. And the rest…" he shook his head. Magic, Hogwarts, the fame of the Boy Who Lived…"I certainly haven't missed the rest."

"Things have changed," Sirius pointed out. "And you can't say that you have a certain future in the other world – you're in the military for Merlin's sake. You could die."

"Everyone can die. There, however, I could die proudly," Harry said and shook his head. "I have no doubt that things have changed, and so have people – it has been quite some time, and a war, even one only brewing, changes people. But what I have _there_ is friendships tested and true. Respect I _earned_ with hard work and my own blood, by skill and courage. A place in a life and in service that no one can take from me." And he had Horntail, but he could see now that wizards wouldn't understand why she was such a powerful motivator. Probably wouldn't even if he revealed her true worth.

"But I suppose all of that is just excuse," he mused softly, "And I cannot explain it fully. But the fact remains that I prefer the place, and that is that."

The animagus said nothing for a long moment, staring at him and then into the distance, thinking. "What is it really like, there?" he asked then, not as suspicious or belligerent as before, but quietly inquisitive.

Harry smiled, and told him – of the dirty cities, the lack of most modern comforts, the worth and expense of things, of the war and the constant nervousness it left in its wake, of the fluctuating politics of the aerial command and of the structure of the Corps, of dragons, of men, soldiers and aviators and sailors. He told the man about his little inventions, of the company he and Mr. Thorpe had started, the Potter and Thorpe Company, which was just needing some financial aid to build their first factory, of the small but increasing amount of capital he had, and of the prizes he had taken to increase it.

"You invented things?" Sirius asked, amused. "Things which people had already invented here?"

"Well. Re-invented them," Harry admitted, smiling a bit sardonically – he was well aware of the dishonour of his claims over his so called inventions. Not enough to feel guilty about them – it wasn't stealing, when there was no one about claiming theft, after all. But still, it wasn't like he was a true inventor, not really. "It started rather by accident. But later… well, you can't imagine how useful a safety pin is – and how irritating it is to find that it doesn't even exist."

The animagus snorted, and then asked what he meant with prizes, which Harry explained quickly enough.

"Not that capturing dragons is worth much, seeing that you can't make use of them as you could with ships, but there is always the potential of eggs, and the head money of the crews," Harry mused and smiled at the memories. "Horntail and I have captured a ship, though, once, even if it was mostly by accident, a sloop of war – we burned her sails and she surrendered. Sorry affair really, and the source of much amusement among our fellows."

"You really sound like you like the place," the wizard across from him said.

"I like the life. I couldn't have a life like that here," Harry shrugged and turned to look at the man. "You know, I've been to Malta, I've weathered storms on the coast of Spain and I _live_ in Gibraltar. I've never been so free _here_."

"Now _that_ is something I can understand," Sirius sighed, folding his arms. "I can't go out of the _house_ , much less somewhere exotic. Gibraltar… no wonder you're so tanned."

"Are they still looking for you?" the aviator asked quietly.

"On and off. Kingsley is actually head of the Auror task force in charge of hunting me, which helps with not being found, but…" Sirius shrugged and then shook his head. "It gets bloody annoying."

"I can only imagine," Harry said sympathetically and then looked up as he heard scraping against the window.

There were owls there, several of them – all carrying packets or varying sizes and shapes. Sirius was up before Harry, his wand out and waving at the avians, before he went about opening the window to them – the whole five of them, all with their individual packets. "Looks like you have some mail," Sirius said, while Harry hurried forward to see the packets they deposited on his bed.

He could immediately recognise the packets carrying the swords, long and slim and neatly wrapped. The other packets were a bit more misshapen, but he could guess what they held. "Ah, Chief Croaker kept his word, I see," Harry said, while tearing into the wrapping of one of the muskets, quickly examining it and its holster – it wasn't his, and must've belonged to the Laurence. The next musket was Harry's, as was the third, and so was the cutlass, which meant the last long packet the lieutenant's sword.

"Pistols," Sirius said, without much expression, as Harry checked the muskets for damage.

"Quite," Harry agreed and after finding everything to his satisfaction, he re-holstered the muskets and set them aside – not much use for them here. Then he took the other sword, and the Lieutenant's musket and turned. "I'll take these to the Lieutenant, if you don't mind – he would probably feel slightly more comfortable to have them, as little use as they may be. I think I should have a word with him, as well," he added. "He must be rather confused."

"Alright," the animagus said, sighing and running a hand over his hair. "I think I'll go and see if Molly has any food ready yet. I'll come and fetch you two once it is, alright?"

"If you could give us, say, half an hour, that would suit most admirably," Harry nodded, and with an amused look at him Sirius nodded and headed off. Letting the man have his entertainment, Harry weighed the Lieutenant's small arms in his hands and then turned to exit the room.

He found Laurence standing by the window of his somewhat smaller room, staring sightlessly out. "Captain," the lieutenant said, standing in near attention. He had a worried, thoughtful frown and a look of odd, resigned dismay.

"Lieutenant," Harry answered, and held up his burden. "Croaker sent us our weapons. These are yours, I believe," he said, and then watched how the lieutenant went through the same quick inspection, checking the mechanism of the musket and the blade of his own sword.

"I hope you find the room to your liking. It is not my own hospitality, of course, but should anything be amiss…" Harry said, training away while closing the door. "I would not wish you to be uncomfortable."

Laurence hesitated and then sighed, falling to sit on the bed. "You are most kind, sir," the man said, glancing towards the window. "To oblige me so, considering your… duties here."

"A man can have many sorts of duties – and I made you mine when I begged your inclusion," Harry answered. "Not that I think you need chaperoning, mind you. But it is a strange world to you."

"Very strange, yes," the Lieutenant murmured. "I… it still feels like trickery, or a dream, but yes. A very strange world."

The aviator smiled faintly, stepping past the man and to the window. Outside he could see the street – there was a car parked just across, and some bicyclers were just going down the walkway. "What do you think of magic, lieutenant?" he asked, figuring it would be the biggest concern.

"I… cannot say, sir. Fairytales and myths have magic, not real life. And yet, the way the house… how it came to life, I cannot…" Laurence trailed away before letting out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Witches and wizards. I feel blasphemous even trying to think it, not to mention trying to understand it."

Harry said nothing to that, not sure what to say – he was an atheist for the most part, and had never understood the moral dilemmas of those religious. Not to mention about those so _studiously_ religious as most men seemed to be, in the other world. "It is a different world," he said finally. "A different universe, in fact. Laws of man and god are different in each, I should think, in accordance to the differences of nature. What is sacrilegious there, would not be so here – if it was, then why would magic exist at all? If god was creator of all, then surely he also created magic here."

He shook his head and turned to face the lieutenant, who looked at him with an unreadable expression. "You may rest assured – no witch or wizard here has made any deal with demons or devils," he added with a mild smile. "Abilities of these people are those inherited, like the colour of one's hair or eyes, the shape of one's jaw. Merely… ethereal."

"And supernatural," Laurence murmured, and shuddered, no doubt thinking of the magical protections of Grimmauld Place number 12.

Harry smiled faintly, before becoming more serious. "Do you have any reservations, Lieutenant?" he asked. "From here on I will no doubt be deeply entangled in the matters of magic and of the brewing war here, and I might not have as much time to oblige you as one might wish. If you would rather be rid of it, I can perhaps make some other accommodations, but… I cannot promise much comfort."

The lieutenant frowned and then looked away, thinking. "I thank you sir, but no," the man then said. "Captain Yarrow entrusted your safety to me. I am well aware that there is no doubt very little I can do here, being so out of sorts as I am, but it is still my duty," he trailed away and then straightened his neck. "I only wish I can be of some service to you, Captain Potter."

Harry considered the man for a moment, wondering if it was really a sense of duty that made the man speak so, despite all the confusion, worry and despair the man must be experiencing. But, eventually, he nodded in acknowledgement. "Good," he said. "And I have no doubt that you will be. Tell me, have you been in many boarding actions, Lieutenant?"

Laurence had been – he had ten years of the Navy life behind him, and had been a lieutenant for five years or so – and throughout his whole career he had been serving on second and first rate ships, most of which saw quite a bit of action. Time would tell how competent the man really was, but Harry had learned to have an eye for those who embellished their histories and abilities and those who were truly honest – and Laurence, Harry already knew, was a man of poise and honour, no doubt the son of a high standing gentleman of one sort or another, maybe even a lord. He did not have a liar's presence.

"I am… I was a second lieutenant aboard the Normandy, sir," Laurence added. "So I have led a few boarding crews along with the first lieutenant. So I dare say I know some of my business."

"Hm… good. I believe that before long I will have use for that expertise," Harry murmured, and then frowned.

The sudden disorientation was the only warning he had – but something must've given the upcoming attack away, because in a flash the lieutenant was on his feet and catching him even as he fell.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, Horntail's awakening was brief – Berkley had only roused her so that she could eat and was happy to let her sleep again once she had swallowed the two roasted cows offered. She did note the look of anxiety about the first lieutenant's face – no longer worried just for Harry, but for her also, for her prolonged slumber. But there was nothing she could do about it – Harry needed more time than she did. And so she laid down again, relaxed, and waited for something to rouse Harry.

It was Lieutenant Laurence who did it, thankfully, and what's even better: the man hadn't called for help, which left Harry waking up without having an audience of half a dozen or so well meaning curious wizards and witches. Still, the disorientation and bleariness took a while, and Harry blinked a few times to get his vision in order, all the while thanking the man rather hazily.

"It's nothing to worry about, but still. It is damned inconvenient to find one's self swooning in the middle of a conversation, like a damned sheltered country maiden - I beg you pardon," Harry muttered awkwardly and shook his head to clear it.

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, hiding his amusement and worry rather well, and with a sigh Harry stood up.

"I should have a few hours of uninterrupted time," he said. "I think I shall go and talk with Dumbledore about the possibility of seeing his solicitor today before it grows too late, and perhaps visiting the bank. And," he added, looking between them, their uniforms. "I think I might see if I can buy us some local clothing."

"Sir, that isn't necessary, I can manage quite well –"

"We stand out, Lieutenant, both in and out of the magical world," Harry said firmly. "I do not say you must wear them if you choose not to, but there will be times when one wishes to go unnoticed on a street – and it would be better to have that choice, don't you agree? Never mind the money – if you are going to be assisting me here, in this world, it can be your first payment for a job I have no doubt will be quite well done."

Laurence hesitated, but seemed to have no objections to that. "Yes, sir," he finally said.

"Would you like to join me?" Harry asked then. "We must see a tailor, of course, but I can give them the estimations of your size should you wish to stay instead."

"No, no. I would be delighted, of course," Laurence said with a determination that made Harry smile faintly.

They found Dumbledore in the dining hall, with the other members of the Order – all of whom fell silent the moment Harry and Laurence entered. Harry didn't let it bother him – the silence wasn't marked, just awkward, and he had suffered worse in those few times he had been the only aviator at a table full of Naval officers. "Headmaster," he said without any ado, "if possible, I should like to visit Diagon Alley today, and see your solicitor if they can receive me. And I think I should also like to take a look at the status of my vault, and visit a tailor – both the lieutenant and I are sorely lacking in suitable clothing, aside from what we currently wear."

"I think that can be arranged," the old wizard said, looking at Harry and Laurence thoughtfully. "However, you will draw some attention, dressed the way you are. Might I suggest cloaks?"

"That would be suitable, yes. Thank you," Harry nodded. "Shall we go presently, or…."

"Oh, we can't. It is my understanding that lunch is almost done," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Molly would be quite cross with me if I took you away before she had the chance to feed you."

"Ah. Well, in that case."

The lunch was, at the start, a rather a quiet affair. It started with Mrs. Weasley loading Harry's plate with slightly more food than necessary, the old, familiar complaint about how thin he was already on her lips before she took a double take of him and no doubt realised that his days of being thin were rather in the past. Which led Tonks to remark that, "And very nicely he filled out too, if you compare him now to the pictures," with a pleasant sort of leer that made Laurence flush to the roots of his hair at Harry's side.

Sirius saved the affair by telling Harry about some of the more amusing things that happened in the house – like back when they were still cleaning it, and they had an outbreak of pixies, and by telling in full detail the destruction of his mother's portrait, something the whole of the Order joined in. Apparently, the portrait had been very well hated, and it's destruction at Hermione's hands had been the best thing that had happened to the house.

The food was naturally excellent – especially to Harry's tongue, which had grown used to the Portuguese style of cooking in Gibraltar, and now found pure English cuisine rather comforting. Laurence seemed to enjoy it as well, though his back was rather stiff throughout the meal and eventually he stopped lifting his eyes much from the food, stopped trying to follow the conversation even for politeness' sake.

"Well then," Dumbledore said, once they all had ate, and Mrs. Weaskey had harangued both her own husband and Tonks to helping her with the removal of the empty dishes. "Let's look into those cloaks. Sirius, I believe there should be something suitable here."

"Oh, there's closets full of old clothing here," Sirius agreed and showed them into what Harry assumed was used as a storage, as it was full of boxes, chest and a few wardrobes, all full of things old and possibly older than the house. In them, they found two suitable dark cloaks that fit Harry and Laurence and hid their uniforms well enough, though Laurence looked a little uncomfortable in his – the design was different from anything he had probably ever worn.

"We shall take the Floo to Diagon Alley, I think," Dumbledore said, and then glanced at Laurence. "If that would be suitable."

"It will do well enough," Harry said, and turned to the lieutenant. "It is a magical mode of transportation that uses a network of connected fireplaces. It is a bit disorienting, but quite safe."

Laurence paled just slightly, but nodded. "If you say it is safe then of course I believe you, sir," he said.

"Headmaster, if you could show an example – we will be right behind you," Harry said, turning to the old wizard who nodded pleasantly.

The one fireplace of Grimmauld Place that was connected to the Floo network was in the drawing room. Laurence looked rather sceptical when Dumbledore stood upon the cold coals, but the look soon vanished into horror and astonishment as the old man dropped a handful of Floo powder and called quite clearly the name of Diagon Alley.

"Good lord," the lieutenant murmured, stepping back as the flames rose and swallowed the old wizard.

"The fire is not hot, it does not hurt you in the slightest," Harry assured. "You only have to drop the powder and announce your destination clearly – and I must stress the importance of clarity. I once ended up quite astray, thanks to bad pronunciation."

"Sir, perhaps… perhaps I had better not…" Laurence said, trailing away uncomfortably.

"This is the mode of transport we shall be using the most, I should think," the aviator said, with some force in his voice. "If you cannot do it now…."

"No, no… I shall… I will do it, yes," the lieutenant amended, awkward. He cleared his throat and straightened his back. "Diagon Alley, was it?" he asked.

"Yes," Harry said. "Go first – I shall follow you."

With a look of extreme discomfort, like he was walking towards his own hanging even, Laurence stepped forth, took a pinch of the Floo powder and then stepped into the fire place. He shuddered and dropped the powder – doing quite bit better than Harry had his first time, for his pronunciation was clear and Harry had no doubt that as the flames took the man, they took him precisely where he ought to go.

Satisfied, Harry stepped forth as well, and followed. The Floo deposited him in what he soon realised was the Leaky Cauldron pub, where Dumbledore waited for them patiently, and Laurence was awkwardly brushing some of the ashes from the hem of his cloak.

"Well then," the headmaster said, ignoring the curious looks given to them by the patrons of the pub. "Let's go."

So they went. Harry had to put a hand to Laurence's elbow to keep the man in motion, when Dumbledore opened the back alley of the pub to reveal the magical street – the man nearly froze at the sight of the wall tumbling away, and then at the sight of all the things beyond, the startling signs and the plenitude of wizards and, of course, other creatures.

"Where to first, the solicitor or the bank?" Dumbledore asked.

"The bank, I think – though, blast it, I just realised I haven't my key," Harry said, cursing himself.

"That is quite alright," the headmaster assured, and produced something from his pocket – a small, familiar key. "I took the liberty of procuring it from your trunk at Hogwarts."

"Oh? Thank you," the aviator said, taking the key and then frowning. "My trunk is at Hogwarts, then?"

"Yes – I keep it in my office, where it is safe from curious eyes and fingers," the old wizard said. "I can bring it to you, should you wish. Or, you can come with me some time to fetch it – it would give you the opportunity to see your friends at the school."

"Hmm… I shall think about it," Harry promised. "First, though, the bank – and Lieutenant?" he added, with a grimace. "Please, make no noise about the bankers, if you please. They are not human, and I would rather not insult them, while they are in charge of my money."

"Yes, sir," the man answered in choked tones and with a nod Harry turned to follow Dumbledore.

Laurence made no sound what so ever at the sight of the goblins – but it obviously took some effort. In the end, the Lieutenant spent the whole of the meeting staring at the floor, while Harry enquired after his finances, and procured a cheque book so that he didn't need to visit the vault. The amount of gold he had made him think, though – though the memory of the pile of gold shone quite brightly in his memory, in numbers it was even more. And, in the other world, he would have so many uses for that _quite bit more_ – merely a quarter of his vault's contents would've been enough to help the _Potter and Thorpe Company_ on the building of their first factory….

But it was a thought for later day. "Now, the solicitor's," Harry decided, and with a nod Dumbledore led him and Laurence out once more, out and then towards the offices of _Wilkins and Watkins_. They were received happily inside, and quickly ushered in to see the precise solicitor they were there to see – Alberta Watkins, who was a witch in her early seventies, and quite severe looking with her horn rimmed glasses and tightly drawn hair.

"Mr. Potter, it is a pleasure," the woman said, shaking his hand firmly once Dumbledore was done introducing them. "I understand you have a magical contract with the Ministry under the works? Excellent, excellent. Tell me about the details, and I shall see what we can do."

It took somewhat longer than Harry had assumed – wizarding law wasn't something he had ever given much thought to, but it was vaster and rather more detailed than he had assumed. And Alberta Watkins was obviously a specialist in its understanding, especially when it came to magical contracts.

"Yes, yes, of course it can be done," she assured him. "But you will need more stipulations than these few if you want to make it stick – these two leave too much to interpretation, and when they have been met once, they can be discarded. Now that I have an idea about your needs, however, I think I should be capable of drawing a more thorough contact. Give me a day or so, and I will have a draft drawn, and if it seems suitable I'll spend a day or two ironing out the holes in it, and then we can see what the Ministry's law specialist think of it."

Harry added a few more inquires to the contract – how to make it include Laurence, and how to make it leave some leeway in the end – he might want to bring possessions with him to the other world, namely his wealth, and he'd rather the contract didn't disallow it. The woman promised that they could do it, but they'd have a hell of a fight on their hands once the Ministry saw the thing – they'd argue every point, if not for any other reason than just because they could. She also said that she'd probably add a few things of her own, which seemed prudent, but he would always have the final say in what went into the contract, of course – only, they would need a few extras that could be easily dropped to appease the Ministry later.

In the end, Harry left the witch to her work, quite satisfied with what had been set into motion. Watkins seemed even more competent than his solicitors in the other world, and rather more ruthless, which Harry definitely approved of in any lawyer working for him – he had nearly switched solicitors when his own had such a hard time getting him the patent of the paper clip.

Laurence, who had not spoken a word since Gringotts, grew a bit more animate when they made it to the Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions, and Harry began detailing the clothing they needed. Under garments, robes, cloaks, muggle clothing if she could manage them, shoes, stockings, and so forth. He also wanted duplicates of their uniforms, as precise as she could make – but in the most magic resistant material she had.

"Well, there's dragon hide," the woman said, having overcame her shock of having Harry Potter in her store under the onslaught of his demands. "But I must warn you, it will be quite expensive."

"If you can keep it under two thousand galleons, I will happily pay for it," Harry assured.

"Sir, please," Laurence said rather plaintively. "Surely one or two sets of clothing, normal clothing, will be more than enough!"

"No, I think not. We might need to move between the muggle and magical worlds, and we will need clothing accordingly. And if there will be fighting, I want us as protected as I can manage. Dragon hide I think will do splendidly – tell me, can it be dyed?" Harry asked inquisitively from the woman, and soon they were talking over Laurence's dismayed look about how to duplicate the Aerial Corps and the Navy uniforms in magic resistent dragon hide.

The meeting ended with measurements taken and Harry writing the cheque for nine hundred and eighty five galleons, that ended up being the price for the lot. Laurence was a bit pale by the end of it, and rather weakly he enquired after the exchange between Galleons and Guineas.

"Hm. I am not quite sure. I suppose they are about equal in value. Or possibly a Galleon is worth a bit more. I would have to ask the Goblins to know for sure," Harry answered, and left Laurence almost choking.

Amused, Dumbledore looked between them before asking, "Is there anything else you might wish to do while were here, Captain?"

"Hm. Some books I think," Harry decided as his eyes fell on the front of Flourish and Blotts. "I think I would like to know more about the first war. And battle magic, as well."

The visit to the book store was about as long as the visit to the Madam Malkin's had been. Dumbledore was great help in picking proper books – he even suggested one for Laurence, a book which muggleborns often bought upon their Hogwarts entry, which explained magic to those unfamiliar. What made the visit last so long, however, was the fact that Harry noticed some books about dragons and, his personal curiosities lifting their head, went to find a book specifically about Hungarian Horntails and draconic anatomy – and breeding, except he couldn't find a book about that.

Thankfully, Dumbledore happily spelled his purchases weightless and when they left the bags containing the several large tomes did not hinder them in the slightest. "I think this should be enough for now," Harry mused, eyeing the alley and all it's magical shop – all of which had no use to him.

"Well then, let's go back," the headmaster said, smiling, and led them back towards the pub of Leaky Cauldron. Before they took the Floo, however, Harry stopped just long enough to buy a case of butter beer and a bottle of Firewhiskey, much to Dumbledore's curiosity, before they returned to Grimmauld place.

 

* * *

 

When they returned to Grimmauld Place, it had emptied some, and only Sirius and the Weasleys were still present – and the Weasleys were making their exit. Harry got the impression that Sirius might've asked the people to clear out for one reason or another, but he said nothing and instead took his purchases to his room, to be arranged by their importance and to be leafed through later.

"I must be off as well – there are matters at Hogwarts that I should look into," Dumbledore said, coming to see him in his room, looking over the place curiously and once more raising his eyebrows at the bottles Harry had bought. "I will however come again tomorrow, if I can – I shall try and compile a time line of Voldemort's doings and if I can finish it, I will bring it along."

"I would appreciate it, thank you," Harry nodded, setting down the last of the books and turning to face the man. "Headmaster," he then said slowly, thoughtfully. "I understand that it is your intention to support me in this… war. However, I am not sure if the Order in general agrees with you. Are they very vehemently against it?"

"Not very, but some. You must understand how you appear to them, Captain," the old wizard said apologetically. "You are only fifteen years old, and they've seen more than their share of fifteen year olds in young Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. They expected you to be similar to them – they didn't expect the level of maturity you've gained."

"You don't seem to have any difficulties there," Harry pointed out.

"Oh, I do, my boy," the old man said, flashing a smile, eyes twinkling. "But I am older and I have seen what a true war does to people. And I always knew that you were one of the few people who were born to lead. Granted, you've grown into that potentiality faster than I expected, but it was not as big of a surprise for me, as it is for the others."

Harry nodded, accepting the compliment. "Will the Order cause any trouble?" he asked seriously. "Mrs. Weasley is a kind woman and I am fond of her, but… if she continues like this…."

"Ah, Molly. She, like many, had their ideas about what might've happened to you in the other world – they expected something worse and yet something better that what the reality was," Dumbledore explained. "They expected that you'd be poorly off and that you would require quite a bit of caring, to regain your health. However, at the same time even in their darkest nightmares they didn't expect you to have joined the military. I suppose they have some trouble in adjusting their mindsets to it."

The aviator nodded and then fell to sit on one of the seats by the small table in his room. "However things turn out, I intend to fight," he said slowly, rubbing a hand across his knee – his palm was clammy with sweat. "If I can, I intend to compile a crew of wizards and witches whom I might have to train to fight in a way that will be useful for me. It might be compiled of Aurors, or hired mercenaries, at this point I don't care which. However… I am not certain how much use the Order will be for me, at this point."

"If nothing else, we can gather intelligence," the headmaster said. "But give it time. Wizarding wars aren't quite as straight forward as you might think – and before everything is over, you will need more than fighters."

"True, true," Harry nodded. "However, I doubt I will be staying with the Order for long at any rate. For now I am more than happy to accept the hospitality, but later… well. It will be better for me to be where I must be, rather than somewhere hidden like this place."

"I understand," the old man nodded seriously. "Sirius however will not like it. He has missed you quite a bit, my boy."

Harry didn't answer to that and shook his head. "Well. It's too soon to say what will happen," he muttered and looked up at the old man. "Either way, I am grateful for you obliging with my demands so far. I have no doubt that it will make things easier for me in the long run and I want you to know that I appreciate it greatly."

"That is quite alright, Captain," Dumbledore said, smiling brightly, but with a hint of guilt. "Though I must admit, I don't do it without selfish reasons," he admitted. "You are the only one who can defeat Voldemort after all."

Harry smiled crookedly and stood up. "I think I can live with that," he said.

They shook hands and Dumbledore took his leave, leaving Harry to contemplate the future and the books, and whatever actions he might have to take. It was all so very scattered – he needed more information, he needed something _concrete_ to start with, but for now things were to his satisfaction. The contract was on the way, Croaker was looking into the bond and its narcolepsy-causing side effects, Shacklebolt was spreading the notion of Harry commanding the Aurors in battle, and Dumbledore himself was on Harry's side, and working to make his work easier.

It was a very good start.

With a smile, Harry picked up a book – which was a collection of news reports and witness accounts of the events and attacks of the first war – and began leafing through it. It had a concrete timeline and something like an accurate accounting of the events, so it seemed as a good place as any to start. Some ten minutes or so later, there was a knock on the door, and looking up Harry saw Sirius, lingering about the doorway.

"Yes?" the aviator asked.

"I was wondering if you and maybe the lieutenant would like join me in the drawing room," the animagus said hopefully. "We could talk a bit about the war or whatever."

Harry considered it and then nodded. "I'd be delighted to," he said, tucking the book beneath his arm and then picking the bottle of firewhiskey he had bought. "I was intending to share it with the Lieutenant, and help him relax a bit after the venture to Diagon Alley," he explained at Sirius's surprised look. "It shocked him badly, I'm afraid, but I think we might as well drink it together."

"Aren't you a bit too young to drink?" Sirius asked a bit hesitantly.

"Oh, bless you. This is nothing – you should ask me about what sort of medicine they have in the other world," Harry laughed softly, and went to knock at Laurence's door to ask the man if he would like to join them – which he of course did, the etiquette pretty much forced the man to accept each and every invitation Harry made to him.

They soon made themselves comfortable in the drawing room, where Harry removed his coat with a sigh and loosened his neck cloth – Sirius had lit a fire in the fireplace, and it was a bit too warm now. Laurence, with a sidelong look, removed his coat as well, though he left his neck cloth the way it was, crisp and neat.

"So," Harry said while Sirius opened the bottle and poured them each a small glass, still looking a bit uncertain about it and pouring Harry a very small shot. "This is your family house?"

"Yes. The Ancestral Home of the Black Family," the wizard answered with a snort and shook his head, disgusted.

Harry eyed the man thoughtfully. Not only was Sirius apparently forced to always stay indoors thanks to the crimes on his name, but he was forced to stay inside a house he obviously hated. He almost wanted to ask the man what had happened for him to loathe the place so, but decided against it – it simply wouldn't do, prying into matters such as those.

"Tell me," he instead, deciding on a more neutral topic of conversation, "What has the Order of Phoenix done so far, except gathered their forces?"

"We've kept track of Voldemort, as much as we've been able to, and his followers," Sirius said, sighing. "We also tried to stop the giants from joining him – Hagrid went out to talk with them, but it didn't do much good. Remus is still trying to talk down the werewolf packs, but since Fenrir Greyback joined Voldemort it hasn't been much use…."

Harry listened quietly, taking his first sip of the firewhiskey and shuddering a bit at its burn – more emotional than physical and oddly comforting – while Sirius elucidated. Fenrir Greyback was, apparently, one of the worse werewolves out there, a man who fully delighted in his affliction and used it to his advantage, by stationing him near residential areas during full moons. The giants, though, were a bit of a question as far as their movements went – Voldemort had gotten their loyalty, but had yet to move them to Britain which was understandable, he would have had some troubles controlling them.

While Sirius talked, Laurence – who had taken a seat near Harry – winced a bit at the drink and eyed his glass somewhat suspiciously. Harry offered him a mildly amused smile and with an embarrassed flush the man took another drink, this one more studious and thoughtful, not letting the drink surprise him. Sirius, noticing the exchange, let his explanation of giants trail away, looking at Laurence curiously.

"What's your story anyway?" he asked.

"I… beg your pardon, sir?" Laurence asked, sounding startled.

"I get that Harry's taken you under his wing, for some reason, and that you were brought here because you happened to be with Harry at the time the Unspeakables finished their work," the animagus said, waving a hand dismissively. "But who are you, really?"

Laurence blinked a bit confusedly and then, after glancing at Harry who motioned him to go ahead, he lowered his glass. "My name is William Laurence – I am second lieutenant on board the HMS Normandy of His Majesty's Navy," he said then, sounding at a loss.

"And?" Sirius asked. "That's just what you do, right?"

Harry hid his smile at the helpless look Laurence gave the wizard and then innocently turned his eyes away when the lieutenant turned to him for a cue. After a moment, Laurence cleared his throat. "I am the second son of Lord Allendale," the Navy officer then said. "I was born in Wollaton Hall, that is the estate my father owns, in Nottinghamshire. That is to say, in the other world, of course."

"So, you're a nobleman," Sirius asked, with a frown.

"Well… in a manner of speaking – my elder brother George will be the one to inherit my father's station, naturally," Laurence said quickly. "I was to go to the church, as is the habit with the second sons of my family, but that was before I ran away to the sea."

That seemed to catch Sirius's interest more than the rest, and he actually leaned forward a bit. "Ran away?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, sir. When I was twelve – I joined the Navy as a midshipman, and got my first berth on board a ship captained by a family friend," the Lieutenant explained. "I suppose it was a foolish thing to do, the life was hard, but… I could not imagine any other sort of life for myself. I still cannot, in fact."

"And if you hadn't, you've gone to the church. Good on you, mate," Sirius said, grinning and holding his glass. "I ran away too, though I was a bit older – fifteen. Didn't go to any sort of military, mind you, wizards don't have that sort of things – but James's parents were nice enough to take me in."

"They were – they did?" Harry asked, lifting his head from the quiet contemplation of his already empty glass. Then, at Laurence's confused look, explained. "James is… was my father. Sirius and he were particular friends."

"What?" Sirius asked, outraged. "No, we weren't! James was mad for Lily!"

"What?" Harry asked in confusion, blinking at the mortified expression his godfather was giving him. Then he realised what he had said and laughed. "No, no, I mean you were good friends, the best of friends. Not that you were lovers," he said, grinning widely. "It's a turn of a phrase, Sirius."

"Oh. Well, why didn't you just say so?" the animagus asked, huffing, while Laurence stared at them with wide, shocked eyes.

Chuckling softly, Harry shook his head. "So, my grandparents took you in?"

"Yeah. I became their second son. It's a pity you never knew them, Harry, they were real fine people. Good, the way people rarely are," Sirius said, and shook his head sadly. "What I would've given to be actually born into that family, rather than into mine. I'm a sort of nobleman too – the current Lord of the House of Black," he added, turning to Laurence and grimacing. "Doesn't it have a vile ring?"

"It sounds very handsome, sir," Laurence said, in oddly choked tones.

"Not if you know the history of the family. Dark wizards and witches the lot of them – or their supporters," the animagus said glumly and glanced at Harry. "You know Draco Malfoy, right? His mother's a Black, my cousin. And darned happy she was to join that family. Then there’s Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa's sister – Death Eater if there ever was one, went to Azkaban soon after Voldemort fell. Of course she's out now…."

"Ah. I see," Harry murmured, frowning.

"Well, all wizarding pureblood families tend to be connected to each other one way or another – there's not that many of them around, anymore," Sirius muttered and shook his head. "There's Andromeda though – that's Nymphadora's mother. Also the sister of Bellatrix and Narcissa, but better by far than any of them. One of my favourite cousins she is, though she's not part of the Order – she's neutral."

Harry nodded, while Laurence frowned, blinking. "Sir, if I may make so bold," the lieutenant started. "Did you say, when Voldemort _fell_?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, right, I didn't explain that, did I? I apologise; Voldemort was defeated once, and was gone for a good ten years or so," Harry said. "That is what ended the first war. In essence he died, but somehow he lingered in life. And now has regained his body once more."

"Oh. I see," Laurence murmured rather faintly.

"Does Dumbledore have any idea how he managed that, anyway?" Harry asked. "Aside from the ritual that returned Voldemort to the physical plane – how did he _remain_ in the first place? He died that night in nineteen eighty one, didn't he?"

"His body was destroyed, that much we know, but his spirit wasn't. I think Dumbledore might know, but he hasn't shared what he knows with the Order so far – I think he suspects there might be a leak, so he's being quiet about the most important things," Sirius said, frowning. "We had one last time, after all. A bad one. We can't be caught like that again, not now."

"Hm. I understand," the aviator murmured, and made a mental note to ask Dumbledore about it.

Sirius frowned at his glass darkly for a moment, before lifting his eyes and regaining a more joyful expression. "So," he said, turning to Laurence. "You ran away for the sea. What was that like?"

Laurence, seeming more than happy to change the topic of conversation to something he actually understood, practically threw himself into explaining life on board a ship, the difficulties and the delights, going even as far as offering a few anecdotes about his days as a midshipman. Harry let the talk flow over him, reaching for the bottle and pouring himself another shot while leaning back in his chair, and considering the war.

Bellatrix Lestrange, a Death Eater. And then there was Lucius Malfoy – had there not been a rumour that he had claimed Imperius and bought his way out of prison? It was something else to consider – and if he ever got the chance to talk with Snape, he would make sure to ask the man for a list of known Death Eaters.

Taking another sip of the firewhiskey, Harry closed his eyes, and made mental tallies of the many, many things he needed to do and find out. There was so much work to be done. So much work, before he finally could go home.


	15. Part II, Chapter V

Horntail's head ached. Groaning, she lifted it and shook it, trying to clear it from the wool it seemed to be stuffed with. How long had she been asleep? As long as Harry had been awake – which was, eighteen, twenty hours? Harry, Sirius and Laurence had talked late into the night, and then the Firewhiskey had kept Harry awake a little longer, thinking, planning.

And apparently even dragons could sleep too long.

Blinking tiredly, Horntail looked around. It was night again – the dead of the night, with the covert around her dark, resonating with the snoring of dozens of slumbering dragons. Carefully she stood and stretched, her back aching, her shoulders feeling like someone had pulled them into knots. God, she really had slept entirely too long – she felt like she was ancient and made of wood, when she more or less limped her way to the river that ran through the covert, from which the dragons drank.

Well, at least the sleeping had one thing to be said about it – she wasn't hungry at all. Usually she couldn't go through that many hours before the constant need to power her body rose it's head – if anything, she still felt content from the meal Berkley had roused her to eat in the morning.

After drinking and stretching some more, she settled down at the edge of the river and tried to pull her thoughts into order. How long had it been now, since Harry had been taken to the other world?

Two days? Three?

It felt like _weeks_. So many things had happened, and then there was the constant switching back and forth, tiresome and somehow prolonging – it made the days feel longer, so much longer. But of course it would – she and he were in essence _awake_ all the time. Even if in different world's.

Three days. How much longer would she have to wait until they would finally get a message from France about the HMS Normandy? First the ship would have to be taken to a French port, that would take at least two weeks, maybe three. After that the prize would be evaluated and so on, and only then would the negotiations about the return of the crew and officers begin – and the message about that would take who knew how long to travel. If Harry had been aboard there would be no question – France would've sent the message on their fastest courier, naturally. But when there was no dragon captain on board and the matter wasn't so urgent, the message would most likely travel by ship.

She'd be lucky if the message would arrive within the month.

Sighing heavily, Horntail laid her head down and blew smoke at the surface of the idly rippling little river. It was very fine being Harry – things were happening to him and truly, there weren't enough hours in a day to manage it all. But her? There was nothing. She could try, of course, doing something more engaging – and of course, it was be rather convenient for Harry to have another brain still thinking while his own rested – but aside from that, she had nothing to expect from her time of wakefulness except the night time and boredom.

And a headache due to too much sleeping, apparently.

"You're awake late," a voice spoke from behind her, and she glanced back to see a small Winchester coming her way – still in flight rig and puffing, having no doubt just landed. "Hello. Mind budging over a bit – I am dying of thirst!"

With a nod, Horntail shuffled out of the way and watched how the small brown and purple beast leaned down and drank with great vigour, sighing happily once he was done and sitting back on his haunches. "That hits the spot. Now, do you think that there'd be anyone awake around here to fetch me a pig?"

Horntail grumbled incomprehensibly and shook her head, glancing back towards the covert headquarters and stables. There was some small activity there, but she doubted many ground grew member were awake – or even around. Her own certainly must've deserted her by now, except maybe for Brasher.

"Ah, well. I can wait until morning, I think," the Winchester said, and then looked at her curiously. "Hey, aren't you the fire breather?"

Horntail nodded, sighing and settling down again. She didn't like meeting new dragons, not unless her other body was there – it always got awkward and difficult, with her being unable to speak and them being understandably curious.

"I heard about the HMS Normandy. Damned bad luck that," the Winchester said sympathetically. "I suppose you're just waiting to hear a word of your captain? I have no idea how you manage it – if my Daniels was taken, I'd be rushing to France at all speed possible. But I suppose they wouldn't really like to let you go off haring like that," he mused. "Being the fire breather an all. Hey, can you breathe fire for me? I've never seen a fire breather up close!"

Giving the Winchester a mirthless look, Horntail grumbled – and then snorted a small lick of flames right at him, not big enough to reach him, but just enough to startle him and make him hurriedly scurry back. "Blimey!" the little dragon said. "Oh, that _is_ impressive – but what are you doing, breathing fire at a fellow for? You could've burned me!"

Letting out an amused sound, horntail laid down her head and eyed him thoughtfully, wondering what it would've been like, to be so small. Winchesters were on the larger side of Britain's courier beasts – not quite as sleek as Greylings, slightly bulkier, but still so very small. Not that Horntail minded her size or anything, but there was something to be said about being so small – not to mention about being so fast. She could've never been so fast, as a Winchester – not to mention about Greylings, which had wings rather long when compared to their bodies.

"What?" the little dragon asked, somewhat defensively, and shirked a bit under her gaze. "Is there something on my hide?" he nosed at his chest self-consciously.

Horntail snorted at him and stretched her foreclaws ahead of her, yawning.

"Hmph," the little dragon said, grimacing at her and then settling down himself, still eyeing her curiously. "My name is Citatus, by the way."

Horntail grunted at that and then, more out of boredom than actually thinking he could understand her growling, said, "Horntail," in her guttural _Dharshak_. "It's nice to meet you."

"Oh!" the little dragon said, lifting his head a bit. "Was that Dhunraka?"

"What?" Horntail asked, opening her eyes sharply. "What is Dhunraka?"

Citatus tilted his head to the side. "It sounds a bit familiar. Can't tell for sure – Dhunraka is a language feral dragons speak in Prussia – I saw one of them once, when I was staying there with my captain, oh, three, four years ago. Some people had captured this little grey and black fellow and he was howling like no body's business. There was this odd fellow there at the time, that could almost talk with them – he said that the language the feral spoke was Dhunraka and that it was similar to something called Durzagh? I forget."

Horntail blinked at him, her eyes wide, and then lifted her head. To her own ears, she was speaking a version of Parseltongue – guttural and rough, when spoken through a dragon's mouth, but Parseltongue none the less. "There are _draconic_ tongues?" she asked, more to herself than him.

"Is that why you never speak, because you didn't learn how?" Citatus asked sympathetically and then got a puzzled look to his face. "How is it that you understand then, if you can't speak it? You do understand me, don't you?" he tilted his head this way and that, considering her. "Have I been talking to deaf ears so far?"

Horntail snorted some smoke at him, making him yelp in objection, and then considered it. Wild dragon languages, hm? Interesting, if not all that useful.

"Well," Citatus said, coughing a bit as he stood up. "I think I shall find a place to sleep – I've been flying all day, and I am tired. Good night."

"Good night," Horntail grunted after him, looking as he went before turning her eyes to the river again.

She was once more bored within a few minutes.

 

* * *

 

For Harry, however, the day started in a great rush of activity. The Weasleys had returned before he had woken, as well as some other members of the Order, and the house was bustling with their goings and doings. What more, he woke to find two letters waiting for him – one from Alberta Watkins, bearing the first draft of the contract, and one from Croaker, who had the first findings about the bond Harry and Horntail shared.

"I believe I can modify the bond – well, not modify, exactly, but affect it - without harming it," the Chief of the Unspeakables said in his letter. "There is a degree of energy going back and forth between the two worlds, this I think is your magical essence, your soul, what makes you and Horntail one. The flow is strong, but frayed slightly, strained due to the distance I think – and it is stronger at one side than it is at the other, which I think indicates the one who is awake and who is asleep. You only have the energy to maintain the control of one body, even though you remain connected, I believe, which is why the one collapses when the other is awoken.

"However," the letter continued, "It could be changed slightly. I have observed pulses of force travelling through the bond, which I think is the awakening of one body while other is awake – it is rather similar to what happens to nerves inside human body, as they register stimulus and send that sensation to the brain for it to react. I think we could _slow_ that pulse down slightly – not stop it, I wouldn't dare to try and do something like that, of course – but slow it. That way you would have perhaps thirty second's warning before one body collapses and other regains consciousness…."

There was a bit more in the letter, all of which Harry read seriously before setting the letter down and turning to the draft of the contract instead. Watkins had indeed added stipulations to it, a lot of them – Harry's contract of two demands had grown up into a demand of twenty. Some of them made sense, like the last one which was "Once the terms of the contract have been met, let them never again be altered and let their effects forever remain thus," which Harry supposed would make it impossible for anyone to come after him, once he had been returned to the other world. Others, though, he didn't understand in the slightest, like, "And let there be a measure of choice to the reaction to that which alters the subjacent orders," which to him sounded like going in circles, somehow.

Deciding to talk with Dumbledore about the contract and send a message to Croaker that, if he could do so safely, Harry would very much prefer this delaying of the switch, he set the letters aside and went about pulling some clothes on.

The moment he opened his door, so did the lieutenant, who like him was fully dressed. That didn't help much – the blue of his uniform jacket clashed somewhat with the paleness of his face and the bloodshot eyes he was forced to squint even against the mild light of the hallway. "Sir," the man said, somewhat subdued.

"Lieutenant. How are you feeling?" Harry asked, a little amused. If he had drank too much, it was nothing compared to Laurence and Sirius – the latter having spent most of the night re-filling the former's glass.

"I… have been better, sir," the lieutenant answered. "What type of spirits was that? I have never tasted anything the like."

"Firewhiskey," the aviator said, grinning as he walked pass the man. "Magical alcohol. Don't worry, though," he added, when the Naval officer very nearly stumbled. "I doubt it will have any adverse side effects, except those common to alcohol."

The lieutenant didn't answer, and with a chuckle Harry led the man downstairs and to the dining hall, where Mrs. Weasley was setting the table. "Harry, dear," the woman called at the sight of him,

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," Harry answered. "Is the Headmaster here, yet?"

"No, dear, he usually eats breakfast at Hogwarts, but he should be here soon. Now sit down and have something to eat, dear," the woman said and with a nod and a word of thanks, Harry sat down. The breakfast started in an amiable enough atmosphere, with Mrs. And Mr. Weasley bustling about – but then Tonks was there, and soon after Mundungus Fletcher, after which Elphias Doge and Hestia Jones arrived and then Emmaline Vance – and after that Harry simply stopped paying attention. Though he was grateful that the atmosphere wasn't as strained as it had been the last time he had seen so much of the Order.

"Captain Potter!" a familiar voice called from the door, and glancing up from his bacon and eggs Harry saw Kingsley Shacklebolt, coming from the drawing room. "Just the man I wanted to see – would you mind a word in private?"

"Kingsley, honestly – wait until breakfast is done," Mrs. Weasley admonished the Auror. "Now, would you like something to eat, yourself?"

"No thanks, Molly, I already had my breakfast," the dark skinned man said, smiling, and then turned to Harry again. "I'll wait for you in the drawing room, alright?"

"That will do nicely. I won't be but a moment," Harry promised, and as Kingsley turned to leave again, Sirius staggered in with a moan – and scandalized Mrs. Weasley with his rather obvious hangover.

"Sirius Black! What _have_ you been doing?! Have you been d _rinking_?!"

"Not so loud," the man moaned, sinking into a seat beside Harry and glaring daggers at Laurence who winced a bit in return.

"Drinking! With young Harry here!" the witch bemoaned. "I'll be telling Dumbledore about this, you can be sure of that."

"Be sure to tell him I brought the alcohol," the aviator said with a crooked smile, and as she was struck speechless, he quickly finished his breakfast. "You can join us in the drawing room once you're done eating," he added quietly to Laurence, who nodded in thanks, looking rather awkward between Sirius's and Mrs. Weasley's glaring looks.

Shacklebolt was seated and leafing through some papers when Harry entered. "Well then, Mr. Shacklebolt, what can I do for you?" the aviator asked, barely able to contain his excitement – he had a feeling what this was about and if it really was, it would be one part of his plans, decided.

"I've spent the of whole yesterday talking with my superiors and watching them go back and forth between the department and the Minister's offices – please sit down," Shacklebolt said, waving. "How is that contract going, so far?"

"We're still choosing the wording," Harry answered, sitting down beside the man. "I have the first draft, but I wish to discuss it with the Headmaster and then run it by my solicitor a couple of times. Then I believe it will be argued between her and the Ministry's solicitors."

"Ah. Well, just so you know, you can probably push it pretty far – the Ministry doesn't have a leg to stand on, if they refuse and lose any chance of having you working for them," the Auror grinned and then turned to his papers. "Anyway, I was to show you these," he said, and handed the aviator a few sheets of parchment.

They were list of names, and dates. "Alright," Harry said, frowning a bit. Dianne Smith, nineteen seventy two to nineteen eighty three, Izakiel Brynn, nineteen eighty, Helena Hunt, nineteen seventy four to nineteen eighty two… "What am I looking at, exactly, Mr. Shackebolt?"

"Aurors. Some of whom are still in service, others who had had to be… released, after Voldemort fell the first time," Kingsley said, crossing an ankle over one knee and pointing at the names. "We had almost thrice as many Aurors during the first war – it was the biggest department in the Ministry, back then, but after the war… well, there was the depression and the Ministry couldn't afford that big of a force. Not that it had any need for it. Anyway, these are all people who Chief Bones contacted about you, and who have so far volunteered to work under you."

Harry lifted his eyebrows and looked down at the parchment again. He frowned a bit – most of those on the list were retired aurors, if the second date meant the date of their termination from employment. Actually, there were only two, no, three names who seemed to be still in service. "Fast work," he murmured, counting the entire list. Twenty five names.

"Chief Bones has kept in contact with everyone – especially now, she was hoping to re-instate most of those on that list. Only thing she had to do was fire-call them," Shacklebolt shrugged.

"Hm. And this?" Harry asked, looking at the other parchment. It didn't have people's names in it, just locations.

"I mentioned that you might need to train whoever works under to you follow your orders – I've seen enough of the muggle world to know the differences between the discipline of soldiers and law enforcement officers," Shacklebolt shrugged. "Those are places we thought you might want to use."

"Hogwarts is on this list," Harry pointed out. The rest of the names he knew nothing about, they seemed to be houses and such in the countryside, for the most part.

The Auror nodded. "During the summer it is used for all sort of classes and lessons – every once a while, the Aurors book it too, for some duelling training and classes," he explained.

"I see…" Harry nodded and lowered the papers. "What is Chief Bones' view of the current state of the war?" he asked thoughtfully.

"She's just waiting for the day Voldemort makes his move – though I think she's expecting the move to be against the Ministry," Shacklebolt said. "There's only so much she can do, however – the Minister's been choking the department and we’ve barely got enough funds to function, not to mention preparing to defend the Ministry. He started doing it the moment he got into office and it hasn't yet reached his mind that this would be a good time to re-think his agenda."

"Wise of him," Harry snorted.

"Yeah. Which is why you're a god's send to us – the Minister has to support you, because of the Prophesy, if he doesn't people will practically line up to lynch him and to put someone in office who will," Shacklebolt grinned. "So he will be supporting you any way you can – and Chief Bones is hoping to use that to make a difference in our department too. If she can get the terminated Aurors under your command… it will be rather like they're in active duty again. It's a boost the force desperately needs."

"Hm," Harry hummed, and eyed the list of names again. "I still need to get the contract signed by the Minister," he said. "But regardless, I will take the lot," he said, and tapped the list with a finger. "This is better than I hoped, actually. Much better – I was expecting I might have to hire people off the street, complete amateurs. Former Aurors will do much better. And if the Ministry won't fund the effort, then I'll pay the wages from my own pocket."

"That's _very_ good to hear," Kingsley said. "But I expect Chief Bones will try and push the Ministry for their wages and for whatever else funding you will need – since once you're gone, there's a chance it all will go to her department. No offence meant, of course, but it's how things work."

"I don't mind. By all means, let her push as much as she can, I certainly don't mind," Harry smiled faintly, and then turned to the list of locations. "I think I will try and see if the training can be done in Hogwarts. I will need more than just a suitable location, and Hogwarts’ library will be of significant value," he mused. "I will talk with Dumbledore about it. Now, how long do you think it would take to gather these people?" he asked, pointing at the list.

"A few days, if even that. These are mostly discontented people, and they've been itching to get into the action again," Shacklebolt explained, and looked up as Laurence opened the drawing room door, and quietly entered.

"Ah, Lieutenant," Harry said, smiling up at the man. "Come, join us. We're talking about our forces."

"Sir?" Laurence asked, but sat beside him and obediently looked over the list.

"These are all members or former members of magical law enforcement," Harry said, handing him the list. "And, if all goes according to plan, we will be training them to act as a regiment."

"There's not very many of them, sir?" Laurence said, frowning a bit though it could've been directed at the material of the parchment as much as it was at the list.

"Not, perhaps, in numbers. But when you take into consideration that we will be training them to work as a coherent unit, and they will be combating against a force wholly untrained in military combat… I think the odds even out," Harry smiled. "And," he added, glancing at Shacklebolt. "Perhaps there is a chance that once we have trained these people, there might be hope for new recruits…?"

"Probably, probably," the Auror nodded grimly. "As things stand, it's pretty hard for normal wizards and witches to take part of this war – there is no way for them to _join_ , except if they join the Order of the Phoenix and no one outside it even knows about it. Of course, right now there isn't exactly a flood of hopefuls, but should Voldemort do something… well, I think people will very soon find in themselves the drive to defend what they have."

"Hm. Well then, it's just as well that we start with somewhat experienced people," Harry said.

"We, sir?" Laurence asked slowly, giving him a considering look.

"You've had more experience with military discipline than I have, Lieutenant and I intend to make use of it unless you object," the aviator shrugged. "Granted, neither of us is a red coat, but I think between us we can put together a proper regiment."

Laurence narrowed his eyes a bit and turned to the list again. "How old are these people?" he asked, looking up.

They talked about the specific for a while longer – how old, what sort of training they had gone through, what had they been doing since being released. It gave Harry and Laurence something of a coherent picture about what sort of people they would be working with – some of them weren't all that encouraging, to be honest, but they could work with them.

Harry was making annotations to the list, about the ages and occupations of the candidates and was just adding the letters MB behind every one who was a muggle born, when there was a knock at the door, and Dumbledore entered. "Pardon me if I am interrupting, Molly said I'd find you here," the headmaster said.

"Not at all," Harry said and motioned the man to join them. "Auror Shacklebolt has brought me a list of people who have so far volunteered to work under my command. Tell me, would there be any chance of training them at Hogwarts? The grounds are suitable and I would very much like to have the use of the library."

"Certainly – half of the castle is empty as it is," Dumbledore said, quickly coming forward to sit with them. "We don't have near as much students as the castle can support. How many volunteers are we talking about, and what sort of training do you have in mind?"

Harry gave only the basic idea of what he had in mind. "I will need to see them in action and perform some experiments to see, if the rest will be of any use," he admitted. "I haven't seen a proper magical battle, so I don't know the limitations of such warfare yet. So I'd rather not say more."

"Well. You can be sure that so as long as the Ministry doesn't make any noise about it, Hogwarts will of course be open for you. As it is, it is only a month and a half or so before the spring semester ends, after which you will have the castle to yourselves," the headmaster said. "Though I imagine you want to start training sooner than that."

"As soon as possible," Harry nodded grimly.

With that decided and the specifics glanced over, Shacklebolt took his leave, telling them that Chief Bones would want the confirmation as soon as possible so that she could put the wheels in motion. Once he was through the floo, Harry turned to Dumbledore. "I got the first draft of the magical contract from Mrs. Watkins. I was hoping you would take a look at it and see if you have anything to add."

The Professor smiled brightly. "I'd be delighted."

Harry sent back the contract with annotations made to it by both him and Dumbledore, using the Floo network to deliver it as it was faster. Watkins received it with a nod and said that she'd have the modified version ready in an hour – which she did. In the terms of the new contract, the Ministry couldn't interfere with Harry's work, his recruiting, anyone who worked under him as long as they worked under him, nor could they press any legal action on him so long as his actions benefited the war effort. And, of course, in the end the ministry would be forced to use any effort in their disposal to return Harry and Laurence – plus whatever they wanted to bring with them so as long as that something was legally theirs – to the other world, after which the ministry was magically, legally and few other ways bound against interfering with either's life again. There were a few other points in the contract as well, but they were of less importance, and put into it just so that Watkins would have something she could safely drop to appease the Ministry's desires, if it came to it.

"I bet you twenty galleons I'll have this thing signed by the end of the day," she said, after Harry and a very uncomfortable Laurence plus Dumbledore and Watkins as their witnesses had put their signatures into the final, finished contract – all in blood, of course.

"I shan't take the bet," Harry smiled, not doubting her much, not any more. If the pressure Fudge was under was as severe as Shacklebolt and Dumbledore thought, and he was being practically forced to do anything he could to secure Harry's services, then there was very good chance that she really could get the contract signed so fast.

"Well, now that that is under way," the headmaster said, once it was just the three of them in the drawing room. "What is the next order of business, Captain?"

Harry considered it a moment. "I think I shall read a few books, until I get word either from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or from Watkins," he said thoughtfully. "Once I know for sure, however, I would like a chance to inspect Hogwarts’ grounds again - it has been a while, and I have a training regimen to plan."

"You'd be very welcome, of course," Dumbledore nodded. "And your friends at Hogwarts would probably be happy for a chance to see you again."

"Hm. Yes," Harry said, blinking a bit. He had forgotten about them entirely. "Well. Perhaps, if there is time," he said and stood up. "Now I would like to educate myself about the intricacies of magical duelling, however."

"Of course," the headmaster said, standing up as well. "I shall go to Hogwarts and see what I can do to ready the castle for you. I believe you will wish your new students to live in the castle during their training?"

"That would be for the best, yes," Harry said, opening his mouth to ask the man to keep the possibly living quarters as utilitarian as possible, when the fireplace flared in green, and Kingsley stuck out his head.

"Captain Potter," the man said, relieved to find him in the drawing room. "If you have the time, would you mind coming across? The Chief would like to have a word with you."

"Oh?" Harry asked.

"Yes, she has some things she wants to talk with you about in detail."

Harry nodded slowly and glanced at Dumbledore who was frowning slightly, and then at Laurence who was a little pale and very studiously _not_ looking at the disembodied head in the green fire. "Would you like to join me, gentlemen?" Harry asked, making Dumbledore relax a bit, and Laurence frown worriedly.

"I believe that would work out splendidly. Do wait a moment, however, as I let the rest of the Order know where we are going – we wouldn't wish to worry them," Dumbledore said, and quickly exited the room.

"Where are we to Floo, Auror Shacklebolt?" Harry asked, turning to the fireplace.

"Just say Chief Bones' Office at Ministry, and you'll get to the right place," the dark skinned man said, flashing a brief smile and then withdrawing from the fire, leaving it to regain fire's usual, natural colour.

"If you would rather stay here, you're welcome to," Harry said to Laurence while standing up and straightening the hem of his coat slightly. "However I would rather have your expertise, in case the chief wishes to talk about the details of the training."

"Yes, sir," Laurence said, though his voice was subdued.

"If you have reservations… Lieutenant, despite everything, you aren't under my command," Harry said firmly.

Laurence actually smiled fleetingly at that, before standing up as well. "No, sir, I would be most happy to join you," he assured. "I am merely still trying to… adjust my thinking to all of… all of this," he motioned the room around them. "I apologise if it makes my manners seem stiff, it is not my intention to appear hesitant."

"Very well," the aviator said and smiled, and in something like an amiable silence they waited until Dumbledore returned, before going through the fireplace.

They did appear in an office – a very busy, very well used office. There was a map of the United Kingdom on the wall behind the large mahogany desk, with red markers pinned to it, and the area around it surrounded with newspaper clippings and photographs as well as a few notes. On each side the room was flanked by a pair of tall bookshelves, full of scrolls and books and stacks of parchment as well as several folders and a few boxes. Then there was of course the desk which commanded the entire room – it was rather impressively large and covered with parchments.

It turned out Madam Bones hadn't been expecting Harry to make his decision as fast as he had, which was the cause of her wanting to discuss the thing with him. "I expected you to hem and haw a bit, and then maybe open a dialogue about it," the woman almost snapped at him, while Laurence stared at the floor, flushed to the roots of his hair. Not that there was anything wrong with Madam Bones, except for the fact she was woman, with short iron grey hair, a monocle, and an expression of severe authority Laurence was most likely not accustomed to find on a woman's features.

"I didn't think you'd just go _bam_ , I'll take the lot," she added with a snort.

"I apologise, but I want everything in motion as soon as possible," Harry answered calmly. "Is it a problem?"

"Not later on, I suppose not, but I thought I'd have a chance to at least see what sort of man you are before I actually put my Aurors under your command – take a seat, will you?" the woman added impatiently, and Harry and his two companions sat across the desk from her. "Kingsley gave a shining description of you of course, and you have Croaker running about doing who knows what which is always amusing to see, but I don't know you yet. So don't think I'm working with you yet either."

"Of course," the aviator agreed and folded his hands in his lap. "What do you want to know then?"

She wanted to know everything – what sort of training he had gone through, what kind of people he commanded, how many and how, what sort of battles he had been in, she even wanted a full account of all his kills and captures, once she figured that there had been a few. Then she asked about his position in a formation, and how he had gone from lead dragon of a large formation to formation leader of a smaller one – why it had been decided and how he had done, and so on and so on.

"When you put it into order, it's not that much, as military career goes," she pointed out, grimly. But that wasn't anywhere near the end of it – next she wanted to know his plans and intentions, what he was thinking of doing with her Aurors and what sort of training he had planned.

"I'm still planning it," Harry answered with a mild frown. "Lieutenant Laurence here will be helping me, however – he has had a longer career than I, and thus more experience, though his is of the Navy, rather than the Aerial Corps," he added.

"Hm. You're a muggle, is that correct, Lieutenant Laurence?" Bones asked, startling the poor man so badly that Laurence actually managed an answer.

"Yes, ma'am, if by muggle you mean that I have never had any dealings with magic," he said, blinking.

"Well then. What have _you_ done in the military? Or the Navy, whichever."

Laurence had done more than Harry, though the tally of his kills and victories were slightly less impressive – engagements on the sea being so very different than those in the air. Laurence had a better understanding of military discipline though – as much as Harry had crammed of it into his head, he was still a bit rough around the edges and overly stiff, while Laurence's understanding was natural and that born not from hard study and memorisation, but habit formed over many years.

"And so you intend to form a task force with military discipline," Bones muttered, looking between them with a severe eye. Then she looked at Dumbledore, who had been watching the proceedings with mildly amused expression. "What are you doing here anyway, Dumbledore?

"Captain Potter asked if he could use Hogwarts as his training grounds, and I acquiesced happily," the Professor said, smiling innocently. "He invited me here to make that official, I suppose."

Bones narrowed her eyes slightly, but said nothing to that, turning her attention back to Harry. "Do you think that military tactics will work better, than common Auror tactics?" she asked, with a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

"I don't know what common Auror tactics are," the aviator answered with a mild frown. "It is my intention to learn that, and via trial and error see what works the best. That is one of the reasons I wish to use Hogwarts – there would be ample space and terrain for such trials."

"Trial and error? What sort of trial and error?" she demanded suspiciously.

"Whatever works. Separating the volunteers into two groups, one using Auror tactics and other trained in military combat, and then having the two groups engage in a mock battle, for example," Harry answered, and shrugged. "I will know better once I have actually seen what the volunteers can do, and what sort of resources I have at my disposal."

She demanded more information, and he answered as well as he could without getting into the things he was still somewhat uncertain about, which he wanted to actually test before ever speaking of them. The more they talked, however, the less hostile she seemed, until finally she asked him, "And all of this, without being able to perform magic yourself?"

"Having or lacking magic has nothing to do with command," Harry said. "Though I suppose I would rather like to have a wizard always at hand, in case I find myself in need of a Sonorous, or something of the sort."

"But you don't intend to fight yourself?" Bones asked, leaning back in her chair.

"I never said that," Harry answered and smiled. "There are more weapons of war than magic, Chief Bones. Which reminds me of something I have been worrying slightly," he added, and leaned forward a bit. "I don't suppose you would have access to muggle weaponry?"

The woman frowned a bit confusedly. "What? You mean like firearms?"

"Fire arms, sure. But I was thinking more along the lines of grenades, land mines and the like," Harry said, making her eyes widen a bit. He let himself grin at her expression. "I was brought here to fight this war, Madam Bones. You may be damned sure I intend to fight it, with muggle explosives if I must. Now, do you have access to such things, or any advice to give me how I might find what I need?"

"No… not as such," she said slowly, her eyes narrow and calculating. "But I know someone you can talk to. You are not quite what I expected, Captain Potter."

"Neither are you, Chief Bones," Harry said, and leaned back again. "So, do you think you can put your Aurors under my command?"

"I think I can," the Auror said, and smiled faintly. "You do know you're completely revolutionising the way wizards do war, don't you?"

"Probably. But that’s not my problem – I was merely asked to end this war. What happens after is your problem," the aviator answered.

The meeting didn't last long after that, but it was not the end of Harry's visit to the Ministry. "The Department of Mysteries is located somewhere in here, correct?" he asked once they were done. "Would it be rude of me to request an audience with Chief Croaker? He sent me a letter, and I was going to answer him but it seems a bit foolish, seeing that we are now in the same building."

"Oh? Well, I can give him a call, see if he's busy," the chief said, giving him a curious look. "Is this about that contract you supposedly have with the Department of Mysteries?"

"The contract is with the Ministry at large, if it is signed, and no," Harry answered and didn't elaborate further, waiting for her to make the call through the fireplace. Soon after that, he was invited to step through – though not Dumbledore.

"Well, it is time I take my leave at any rate," the head master said, though he gave somewhat worried look at Harry. "Are you sure you wish to go without company?"

"I'm sure I will be fine – the Unspeakables didn't dissect me the first time they had me in their hands, I doubt they'll do it now either. And besides, the Lieutenant is coming with me," Harry answered calmly. Soon after he stepped through the fire with a somewhat resigned Laurence stepping in after him – and found himself in another office, this far larger and somehow, far more cramped.

"Captain!" Croaker said in way of greeting. "Sorry about the mess, it's been a bit of a hassle in here in the last few years. You're here about the bond, correct?"

"I was in the building and figured that we might as well have this conversation face to face, rather than wasting time on owls," Harry answered and took a seat when the man motioned to it – though he had to shift a stack of books and papers out of the way first. There was no seat left for Laurence – none that hadn't been buried under a mountain of papers and books anyway – so the man merely stood at the side, silent, watching.

Harry cleared his throat. "You made some progress with your studies into the nature of the bond?"

"Yes. Like I told you in my letter, I believe I can slow the transfer of signals slightly, and give you a moment's warning before you pass out," the man agreed. "I can't do anything to stop you from passing out, however, not without damaging the bond irreversibly. That is the distance and the strain speaking there and the only way to fix it would be for both of you to be on the same world, or the bond to be snapped."

"I am fine with things being as they are, but I would admittedly like a moment's warning," Harry answered, folding his arms. "But it does not damage the bond? Will there be any side effects when I am altogether in one world?"

"I do not think so, no, but I can undo the magic," Croaker promised. "See, the way it works is that we add an additional layer of seals to the ring of stones – it slows down the transfer between worlds all together. Time still passes exactly same on both sides, of course, but in between them the time is slowed down – think of it as reducing the velocity of an elevator between two floors."

The aviator nodded slowly. "So, basically you won't be doing anything to the bond at all, but to the circle of stones, and that affects the bond?"

"Well, your bond goes _through_ the stone circle," the Chief of the Unspeakable answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Rather like a string or a chain."

Harry considered it for a moment. "And the layer of runes can be removed later?" he asked.

"Yes, easily," the unspeakable said. "Just… once they're actually added to the circle, using it will be rather difficult. Lagging."

"Are you planning to use it?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Well. Not at the moment," Croaker admitted.

"Do it then, if you can, if it doesn't cause any undue trouble," Harry said. "If it stops me from blacking out in the middle of conversations and gives me enough time to sit down, I'll definitely welcome it."

"Well then," The unspeakable said, sounding satisfied. "That's what we'll do. Now, if you don't mind me asking, what were you doing in Amelia's office?"

"Talking about our soon to be army," the aviator answered, glancing at a thoughtful looking Laurence and smiling faintly.

 

* * *

 

At Croker's advice, Harry didn't do anything else that day as far as the war effort went – though the wheels were set in motion, and they were all but sending out invitations to the volunteers to join Harry at Hogwarts where they'd be trained anything from two to twenty weeks, they were still waiting.

"Best to do it officially," the Chief of the Department of Mysteries said. "That way no one can complain later on. So, get the contract signed first."

So, Harry waited. He didn't mind – it gave him time to look through the books he had found and start building a coherent picture about common abilities of wizard duellists and combatants. In the meantime, Laurence did the same – first reading through the introductory book Harry had bought for him, before moving to other matters with the single mindedness of a soldier on a mission.

"Magical shield that can stop attacks," the man murmured, just when Harry was considering that very notion. "Can they stop _all_ attacks? Magical and physical? That would make firearms useless."

"Yes," Harry agreed with a worried frown. "But I think there are weaknesses to every type of shielding charm. Here, for example, the Protean charm," Harry said, leaning forward and showing him the description of the charm. "It uses quite a bit of energy and can be overwhelmed."

"Are you talking about combat magic?" Sirius asked, as he and Remus joined them in the drawing room.

"Just trying to get our heads around what magic can and cannot do in combat situations," Harry said, writing the shield charm and its pros and cons down to a notebook he had bought just for that purpose. "Come, sit down – you're bound to know more about this than I, Professor Lupin."

"I can help you a little, sure, if you want, but you really ought to ask Tonks – she's an Auror herself," Remus said thoughtfully, and so the young witch was asked to join them – and she had quite a bit to contribute. There were half a dozen commonly used shielding charms she knew and could tell the details of.

"They all work well to a point, but you don't use a protean charm against physical attacks, or an extundo charm against magical ones," she said. "And of course, nothing blocks an Unforgivable, except a physical object."

"Yes, and Unforgivables will probably be what the Death Eaters use," Sirius added grimly.

"But physical objects block those," Harry said thoughtfully. "Do you think there is a transfiguration spell for creating a wall out of whatever you are standing on, and how much effort it would take to make it?"

Sirius, Remus and Tonks exchanged looks. "Well, I don't know any spells of that kind. You will have to ask Professor McGonagall, I suppose, she would know," the Auror eventually said and with a nod Harry wrote it down.

"Transfiguration. That is changing the shape of something into something else, correct?" Laurence asked, seeming to think about it. "Can it be used to modify the terrain? Say, digging trenches as well as raising walls – or would that fall under the category of Charms?"

"Oh," Harry said, having not even thought of it, "Very good, Lieutenant," he said, and quickly added it to the growing list. Of course, there was a chance they would never get to do battle on a field of any sort and it would be all contained inside buildings, the war being what it was, but… perhaps.

"I think digging would be a charm," Sirius said thoughtfully. "Unless you wanted to turn the material you dug up into something, say, bricks or a wall, then it would be transfiguration."

There was a bang at the door, and they all turned to look as a grubby creature, wrinkled beyond belief, wearing a cloth that might've been a pillowcase or a cleaning rag, it looked about the same. "Dirty traitors and disgusting muggles keeping secret council in mistress’s drawing room," the house-elf crumbled, glaring at them. "Dirtying mistress’s drawing room with their disgusting filth, oh, how she would weep…."

"Get out, Kreacher," Sirius ordered, scowling. "Go back to your cupboard and stay there."

"Bad master thinks Kreacher will follow his orders, but Kreacher won’t, Kreacher hates the bad master, broke mistress’s heart he did…" the creature muttered, but he withdrew from the room, banging the door as he went.

"So, that is the house elf?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows while Laurence blinked somewhat uncomprehendingly after it.

"That's Kreacher. He's half dumb and all mad – loved my mother beyond all reason, and is more of a nuisance than a help to anyone," Sirius muttered and shook his head. "Never mind. He knows to stay out from under foot most of the time, these days."

"I see," Harry muttered, with a mild frown before shaking his head and returning to the matter at hand. "So, trenches…. Might any of you know a spell for that?"

"You ask hard questions," Tonks said frowning. "What do you plan on doing, exactly?"

Harry smiled, but didn't answer. "Let's leave that aside for a moment, then," he said, moving away from walls. "Is there a way to bind a charm to an object? I am aware there are explosion charms. Could you put one into an object, and set it to explode at certain moment?"

And so on. In just half an hour, Harry filled some twenty pages with charm annotations and questions, things to find out and discover. He would need to very nearly interrogate Professors Flitwick, McGonagall and Snape about possible military uses of their respective arts – Sirius, surprisingly enough, had been the one to suggest using potions for explosives, as there were bound to be a few that reacted violently under the right circumstances.

"You know," the animagus said conversationally, looking at Remus and Tonks. "After Voldemort snatched the giants to himself, on top of Dementors and werewolves, I had my doubts about our chances with this war. I don't, anymore."

"I hear you," Remus murmured, shaking his head, while Harry added a few notes about potions that could be used as sleeping gas, or possibly to produce some other form of stun effect.

"Now," the aviator said, turning an empty page. "Let us talk about offensive spells."

"Explosions are _defensive_?" Sirius asked with disbelief.

"Well…. Traps are defensive, though I suppose they tip toe the line," Harry amended. "But offensive spells, now. What are the common ones I am likely to find myself facing - aside from the three Unforgivables?"

And so it went. Laurence, now that he had some idea about what they were talking about, had a surprisingly good head at strategizing magic into something more useful on an honest to god battle field. He did not only come up with the idea of using trenches, but he asked some very pointed questions about supplies and where and how wizards got their food – did they farm or buy and if so, from where, how was the food transported, and so forth, something Harry himself wouldn't have thought to ask.

There would be no use in any action against supply lines, though, because there were none. Unlike muggles, wizards had the benefit of expanding their food resources magically, if not creating them out of nowhere – a wizard quite literally extend the portion of one man to feed twenty, and more. And most wizards either had their own private gardens and farms, like the Weasleys, kept by themselves or their elves, or they bought from magical farms, the food transported via vanishing cabinets and whatnot.

"And of course, some buy from the muggle world too," Remus added thoughtfully.

In general, the whole thing was too wide spread and too sparse for action against it to be any good. It was a good point though – wars were fought, won and lost with the power of supply lines, after all. The problem was, wizards didn't really have any – and the few things that did, like potions ingredients and whatnot, they could do little about unless they wanted to choke the entire nation.

"As far as potions themselves go, I need to learn more. What little I learned in Hogwarts I've mostly forgotten," Harry admitted. "But if there are potions to replenish strength, heal wounds and that sort of thing, then I would like to have all those under my command carrying some meagre stores. Oh, and a healer, of course," he murmured, and frowned. "A healer or someone even sparsely talented with healing would be _very_ useful."

"What are you going to _do_ once you have all this down, though?" Tonks asked, looking at the list suspiciously.

"Whatever I can," Harry answered. Defend the Ministry if need be – but what he would much prefer to do was hit, rather than wait to be hit himself. Yet another reason to go to Hogwarts – Snape was there, possibly with all the intelligence he needed and if not, then the means to get it. If Harry could discover where Voldemort _was_ , or where any of his followers were… then there'd be no need to wait for the opposition to start. And of course, Voldemort had already _started_ , by attacking Azkaban, so there was nothing immoral in taking the war to him, now.

But he was counting his crews before the dragonets were even harnessed. First, he needed the contract signed, then the people trained, and then, unless something occurred in between, then he could go about the rest.

"Yes," he murmured more to himself than to company at large. "Whatever I can." Whatever that would turn out to be, in the end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now. This one I will definitely be continuing, though. Probably very soon too.


	16. Part II, Chapter XVI

 

 

The signing of the magical contract between Harry Potter, William Laurence, and the British Ministry of Magic, it turned out, wasn't as simple as Mrs. Watkins had made it seem.

"The Minister wants to make a thing out of it. As public a thing as he can manage," the woman explained with a grumble, speaking through the fireplace. "They're willing to sign it – without many changes either – and it's not just him, but also the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. But they want to do it in front of cameras, with you there."

"Of course," Harry sighed, and thought about it. He didn't much like the notion – he hadn't forgotten the ways of this world so badly that he couldn't see what it was for, publicity and public support and whatnot. They wanted the people to know in as much detail as possible that they had Harry Potter on their side. Which put him in a rather awkward position.

Naturally, by now everyone interested knew he was back – he had only glanced at a Daily Prophet that day before setting it down in disgust, but it had been enough for him to see his own story on the front page. So, it wasn't like he had that big of an element of surprise in this war, not with publicity like that. However, he had hoped to keep his face, as it was now, out of the papers and maybe that way win himself some time at least.

And, if the reporters of the Wizarding world were anything like Rita Skeeter, well. He had a feeling that they'd ask some pointed questions, and then write their own versions of his answers.

"Well, I will not do it," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Either they sign the thing without this hassle, or they agree to additional conditions."

"Such as?" Watkins asked eagerly.

"Hm… Ministry sponsored pay for me and my people. Much higher than whatever they're planning to pay now. If I'm working for them on two different things, they might as well pay accordingly," Harry said slowly. "And full authority over the Ministry's security if it comes to that." It had been one of the things he had talked about with Amelia Bones – how very unlikely the Ministry was to adopt extra security measures even in a time of war, not if it inconvenienced people and cost money.

"Hm. I think I can wing it," Watkins said. "I would also wring out full pardons for you and all your people," she added. "That way they won't be able to try you or your people later on for whatever you do during this mess."

"If you can, go ahead," Harry agreed, and she nodded before withdrawing.

It was the next morning before she called back – after another fairly boring night spent as Horntail, which had only been saved from being an utter waste of time by the fact that the ground crew had noticed that she had become nocturnal and had arranged her food accordingly. Waiting for word of Harry's non-capture to come in was getting really tiresome in the other world, but at least it was a breather in a rather fast paced chain of events.

Harry was thankfully washed, dressed, and had recently eaten when Watkins called again to tell him that the Ministry had agreed to the terms. "They really want the publicity," she said, rather amused. "I think Minister Fudge has had something of a nose-dive in his support and popularity since the Dark Lord's return. And if he can't get it back by the time Hogwarts' term ends, he'll lose his throne to someone else. So he's throwing everything at you, hoping it'll stick."

Harry smiled faintly. "When will the signing happen?" he asked.

"I pushed them so that it'll be this afternoon. They wanted to wait a few days, but I understand that you're in something of a hurry," she said. "So, twelve o'clock at the Ministry's public auditorium. There will be about twenty reporters, plus Auror guards and whatnot, and of course Minister Fudge and Chief Warlock Beddington."

Harry frowned. "I thought Dumbledore was the Chief Warlock?" he said slowly.

"He lost the position when he proclaimed that Voldemort had returned, when the Ministry didn't yet want to hear it," Watkins said with a grimace. "It was almost half a year of bad publicity for Dumbledore, up until Azkaban was cracked open. That's why Fudge is in such trouble now – he spent all that time ridiculing Dumbledore and telling people that of course Voldemort could never be back and then _wham_. And here we are."

"Ah. I suppose that does explain it," the aviator murmured. "So, twelve o'clock," he said.

"Better come half an hour earlier. And I will be there as well," Watkins added and glanced around – probably for Laurence, who was reading in his room. "Are you going to bring that handsome Lieutenant of yours? His signature is already on the contract."

"Handsome?" Harry asked with a blink and then shook his head. "No, I think not. If I have to make a spectacle about myself and have my face in every paper, then fine, but I'll be damned if I drag him into this as well," he said and stood up. "Any way to keep the Minister from making any mention of Laurence?"

"I don't think we have to worry about that. He's a muggle, so the Ministry won't say a word. Bad publicity, that, having a muggle working to do something that they themselves can't do," the solicitor snorted. "I'll see you half past eleven in the Ministry, then. How are you going to get there, however?"

"I'll floo in through Chief Bones' office, unless she minds. There are some things I want to talk about with her, at any rate," Harry shrugged.

"Alright. I shall be waiting by the elevators then."

With that said, the woman withdrew, and Harry left the room to inform Laurence and the Order that he'd be heading out later. None of them liked it much, of course, but they seemed aware that the handling of Harry's affairs wasn't in their hands because their objections lacked strength and conviction.

"Should I come, sir?" Laurence asked later, when Harry was going through some of the closets in the house, trying to find suitable robes to wear – he had no intention of showing his uniform to the public, and letting them draw conclusions about that.

"No, it isn't necessary, and I want to keep your existence out of print," Harry said, eyeing a set of dark burgundy robes and then discarding them. "Being shown at my side, you'd become a target. For the press and for Voldemort, if he's watching."

"Ah," the lieutenant said, watching him silently for a moment as Harry eyed and discarded some five sets of robes before pausing to look at a handsome set of dark green robes with a suit jacket's collar. They were a bit long, and moths had eaten holes in the shoulder and at the hem, but Mrs. Weasley could probably fix them nicely.

"Captain Potter? What will happen after the contract is signed?" Laurence asked after a moment. "I understand that we are to train a group of law enforcement officers in military tactics, at the school Hogwarts, but…"

"For now, that is it," Harry said. "You and I cannot do much by ourselves, as neither of us have magic nor a full understanding of this war, so we will train those who do and in the mean while we will learn more. I will however try and get us some weaponry. Muggle firearms and explosives are far more advanced here than they are back home, and I intend to take full advantage of them. Also, the Order of the Phoenix has a spy among Voldemort's ranks, who resides at Hogwarts and hopefully, unless the bastard decides to be difficult, I can make use of that."

He paused for a moment, lowering the robes he had been examining and turning to Laurence. "Eventually – and I hope that _eventually_ will be very soon – we will defend the Ministry, magical alleys, and whatever other place might be Voldemort's target and, if we can, we will bring the war to him. We will find his hideouts and headquarters and we will destroy or capture them. And we will either kill or capture all his followers."

Laurence swallowed and nodded. "And Voldemort himself, sir?"

"Hm. I will first need to figure out how he achieved his brand of immortality – be so kind as to remind me about it later, whenever we might see Dumbledore, since he might know," Harry added, turning to the robes. "Then, whatever it is, we will neutralise it however we can. And then… why, I imagine I will put a bullet between his eyes."

The lieutenant said nothing for a moment. When he did, his voice was oddly subdued. "You make it sound quite easy, sir."

"Yes. I know," the aviator agreed with a sigh. "I am rushing things a bit, but I really want this done as soon as possible. I don't want to dawdle. But you're right, it won't be so easy. Nothing ever is. Now, what do you think?" he added, turning to the man and holding the robes against himself. "Will these do?"

"Aside from the holes, they're very fine," Laurence said, though with a sort of wry tilt to his smile that made Harry doubt his approval very much.

"Well, I think they're the best that I can manage in the time given," the aviator mused. "Hopefully, our batch of clothing will come from Madam Malkin's soon. But for now, this will have to do."

Mrs. Weasley did manage to fix the robes a bit, and even cleaned them of dust and got rid of the smell of having been hung in a closet for the better part of a decade. The size took a bit more work. But in the end, the robes came out well enough, fitting Harry as well as could be managed on such short notice.

"I do wish they could've done something about your cheek in St. Mungo's," the woman fussed while arranging Harry's collar and plucking at the neckcloth Harry had tied, which worked just as well as a proper tie would've.

"My cheek is fine," Harry said, pushing her hands away and rearranging the neckcloth before she could tug it out of order.

"Are you sure about this?" Remus asked, from where he was watching. "About giving the Ministry your public support?"

"I'm not. I'm publicly forming a contract with the Ministry," the aviator answered and decided that his clothing was fine enough and that it was time to go. "And one way or the other, it will get Voldemort's attention. And I have to admit, I am not exactly against that. If I can make him worry about me, he hopefully won't start attacking just now."

There were a few more objections, but the matter was already decided upon and eventually Harry managed to detach himself from the overly concerned Order on the account of being late if he didn't. Amelia Bones was waiting for him in her office when he came through, looking grim.

"No uniform this time," she noted, glancing down along his robes.

"I'm not quite ready to publicly announce everything," Harry shrugged. "It's bad enough that the Ministry wants me to make so much noise, so I will try and keep everything else as secret as I can. Will you be there?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Bones said with a grin. "I have to warn you, though. I think they've readied a speech for you."

"Indeed?" Harry asked, and then followed her out of the office, where, surprisingly, Percy Weasley was waiting for him.

"There you are, Mr. Potter," the wizard said, with an odd tone and an even odder expression as he pushed forward and shook Harry's hand, like they had never met before – all the while making it seem like they were the best of friends. "So good of you to come, though it would've been better if you used the public entrance, or the Minister's entrance. Now, here's your speech and what you're to answer to the Minister's and the reporters' questions," he added, "You have only so much time to study them, so be quick."

Harry raised an eyebrow and looked down at the parchments, reading through the short speech which was mostly about how happy he'd be to help the Minister fight the threat of darkness and whatnot, and then the dialogue which was pretty much the same.

"Right," he said, glancing around until he found a garbage bin and dropping the parchments into it. "Chief Bones?" he asked the highly amused woman.

"The elevators are that way. I believe your lawyer will be waiting for you there," she said, smirking.

"Thank you. And, if possible, I would like to have a moment in private with you later. Once the contract is signed," Harry added.

"My door will always be open for you, of course," the woman said.

With a nod at both her and Percy – who stared after him with an outraged expression – Harry turned and walked through the corridor, which was flanked by the offices of some very curious Aurors, all of whom poked their heads out at the sight of him, and whispered. Harry ignored them, however. His attention was concentrated on Alberta Watkins, who was waiting by the open doors of an elevator, holding said doors open.

"No uniforms?" she asked in almost the exact same tone as Bones had.

"I opted for strategic camouflage," the aviator said, as they stepped into the elevator together. "Do you know what I'm to expect?"

"More or less," she said, taking out a slip of parchment and looking over it. "The Minister will give a speech, then sign the contract with flourish, followed by Warlock Beddington, and then you shake hands with them both. Then you're expected to give a speech and both you and the Minister will answer questions."

"Well, I dropped the speech in a bin, so that won't be happening," Harry answered, folding his arms.

"They're bound to take that nicely," the woman laughed. "Have you planned on saying anything?"

"Not really. I just want the Minister's and the Warlock's signatures and then I will be satisfied," the aviator said. "Afterwards, they can all do whatever they damn well like."

There was a huge crowd of people on the level where the Ministry's public auditorium was – reporters, whose cameras began flashing away the moment they caught sight of him, all rushing forward to press microphones as closely as possible, their questions instantly flying. "Mr. Potter, how does it feel to be back?" and "Mr. Potter, what is in the contract you are signing, have you read it?", "Mr. Potter, what was the other world like?" and "Mr Potter, what do you think of the Ministry's policy?" and so on. One of them, however, was pushier than most and came forth with a gratingly familiar, "Harry, darling, how about a few words for your public?"

Harry only glanced at Rita Skeeter before pushing past her, with Watkins following closely behind him. "There," the solicitor pointed, and Harry made his way quickly through the crowd, shouldering his way through with sheer physical force, before he made it into what he supposed was the back room of the auditorium.

"Mr. Potter!" Minister Fudge's voice greeted him eagerly, and the man rushed forward to shake his hand. "What a pleasure to see you up and about – you were in quite a state the last time we met. How is your wound? Perfectly healed, I suppose?"

"Perfectly," Harry answered, squeezing the man's rather clammy hand before withdrawing his own. He glanced quickly around the room, making a mental note of the tall, bushy bearded wizard who was probably Beddington, and of one Lucius Malfoy who lingered about a doorway, eyes nailed on Harry. "How are you, Minister?" the aviator then asked, turning his eyes away, ignoring the rest.

They chatted rather inanely for a moment, before the Minister asked him rather nervously. "And you have your speech, I hope?"

"It's somewhere, I'm sure," Harry said reassuringly. "I understand that the press conference is more or less scripted throughout."

"As much as it can be, yes," Fudge said glumly and then patted Harry's shoulder compassionately. "Just let me answer any questions put to us first and it will be perfectly alright."

The aviator said nothing to that, and very carefully avoided looking at Watkins who was perfectly blank faced, but with eyes full of mirth. Instead, Harry turned his attention to the door, waiting.

Then the whole ordeal started. The Minister led Harry to the auditorium, where they were welcomed with murmurs and small applause, before the reporters all sat down and then the Minister took the podium. Harry listened to his speech only with half an ear, since it was basically the same as the speech he had discarded but in reverse; the Ministry was very happy to proclaim that from this day on, they'd be working in very close co-operation with Harry Potter, the chosen of Prophesy, and that to that end a contact detailing their co-operation had been drawn up, which they'd be signing that day.

Harry looked instead at the reporters. There were surprisingly many of them – he hadn't even known there were that many papers in the wizarding world. But then, they all seemed to come in pairs, each reporter having their own cameraman and sometimes even another person carrying recording equipment. Rita Skeeter, of course, had a seat near the front, and her Quick Quotes Quill was writing almost fast enough to produce smoke.

Then the signing happened. Under Watkins's severe gaze and Harry's sidelong look, the Minister produced a black quill, similar to the one Harry and the others had used to sign the contract. Harry had to suppress momentary amusement at the sight of the Minister wincing as the quill carved the Minister's name into the back of his hand. It was quickly healed, of course, gone in an instant; but as Fudge stepped back, he rubbed at his hand, still wincing.

Then Beddington signed the scroll, he with better composure, before almost ceremonially handing it to Harry. There was applause while Harry looked at the scroll, to see that it was indeed the one he had signed, before handing it to Watkins who very professionally rolled it tight, and sealed it with dark blue wax and the signet ring of her company.

"Now, Mr. Potter would like to say a few words," Fudge said to the reporters and then stepped back, bowing and letting Harry take the podium.

"Thank you," Harry said, as civilly as he could, and then looked at the reporters, who were very nearly drooling over their pads in eagerness to write down whatever he would say. The aviator smiled at them. "I don't actually have anything to say, but I can take a few questions before I have to be elsewhere," he said.

There was a twenty seconds' worth of pandemonium as all the reporters nearly jumped to their feet, hands waving in the air with eagerness to be the first who got their question answered. Beside Harry, Fudge tried to push forward and stop the aviator from saying anything, but Watkins put herself very neatly in between, holding the contract up like a weapon – which it was. The non-interference clause was now signed, after all, and the Minister couldn't step forth without breaking the contract. Meanwhile, Harry eyed the reporters rather amusedly and then picked one who looked particularly boring – an elderly man with white at his temples and had a look about him that made him look rather like a librarian. "You sir, with the silver rimmed glasses."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," the man said, rising to his feet. "What is your plan concerning the Dark Lord and the rumours about him gathering an army? What sort of measures do you plan to take?"

"For security reasons, I cannot comment on that right now," the aviator answered calmly, and then picked another.

It was actually his answer to almost _every_ question they put to him. Were the rumours about his co-operation with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement true? He couldn't comment. What about the rumours about him and the Department of Mysteries? He couldn't comment. What was his view of Ministry policies? He was quite sure he couldn't comment.

The only question he answered was a rather desperate attempt by Rita Skeeter, who, after figuring out that Harry wasn't answering any questions about the war, put forth, "How does it feel to be back?"

"So far it has very little to recommend itself," Harry said. "And that is all the time I have, I'm afraid. Thank you for your consideration."

With that, he stepped back and while ignoring both Fudge and Beddington, he and Watkins made their way to the backroom, where they passed a frowning Lucius Malfoy.

"How very interesting, that contract," the man noted, just as they were about to leave. "All those paragraphs and clauses. And to what end?"

Harry paused at that and glanced at the man. "You've seen it, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked bluntly.

"A copy of it," the man said, smiling slightly. "It is very neat legal footwork, Mrs. Watkins. My congratulations."

"Thank you," the woman said, bowing her head slightly.

"A copy of the contract," Harry murmured, his eyes narrowing as he considered the possible damage this knowledge in the wrong hands might have done. There were no actual details of what he intended to do in the contract, no specifics of his thoughts, just what he desired the Ministry agree with. The most damning point was, perhaps, about his and Laurence's return to the other world, but that only mattered once Voldemort was gone and the war ended.

It did have Laurence's name, however. And if Harry were Voldemort, he'd be mighty interested.

"Well. I hope you enjoyed the spectacle, Mr. Malfoy," he said, wondering, wondering. Malfoy could freely traverse the Ministry and had easy access to the Ministry's contracts and documents. What else did he have access to? And how many others were there, worming their way through the building? It was yet another thing to discuss with Chief Bones.

"I'm afraid I must be off, however. Good day to you," the aviator added. And under the man's thoughtful gaze, he and Watkins exited the room and made their way to the elevators.

 

x

 

By the time Harry returned to Grimmauld Place to find that Dumbledore was there to congratulate him on his success, he had spent nearly an hour with Amelia Bones discussing Death Eaters, the volunteers and their invitations to start their training at Hogwarts, the Ministry's defences and weaknesses, as well as escape routes and whatnot. They had decided that the Ministry had rather poor defences all together and wasn't making most of its resources by a long shot and perhaps it was time to start supplying _all_ the Ministry workers with emergency Portkeys at the very least – among many other things.

"I see things went well," Dumbledore noted, holding the very quickly printed extra edition of the Prophet, rushed through just so that they could cover the press conference.

"Well enough," Harry agreed, quite satisfied. "I now have the Ministry's support, their vow of non-interference, and free hands with the management of this side's war efforts. Watkins is, as we speak, negotiating the funds and whatnot with the Ministry's treasurer, but she's already gotten pay for me and whoever works for me. So, I am quite ready to start."

"Well then. Do you wish to see Hogwarts today, or will you leave that until later?"

"Today would be the best – the volunteers will start arriving tomorrow," Harry said with a faint smile. "So we might as well get started. And I think it's best if we relocate there permanently, unless you have any objections?"

"None at all. I have quarters settled for you, the lieutenant, and enough space for up to fifty volunteers – we modified one of the disused towers for you," Dumbledore assured. "Also, in case you do not wish to share your dinners with the rest of the school, we turned one of the classrooms in that tower into a dining hall."

"Splendid, that will do quite nicely," Harry nodded. "Lieutenant?" he added, glancing at the man who was sitting with Sirius and Remus, notebook in his lap and quill in his hand. "Unless you have reservations, we will be relocating to Hogwarts and starting with the outlining of the training grounds and schedules."

"No reservations at all, sir," the man assured.

"I have one," Sirius said, holding up his hand. "Can I come?"

"You're a wanted fugitive, Sirius," Harry pointed out, making Laurence's eyebrows lift.

"I could come as Padfoot?" the man said hopefully. "I could be the company pet!"

Harry considered it, glancing between him and Remus, who too had a considering look about his face. Then he glanced at Dumbledore, who looked somewhat reluctant. "Alright," he said, before the headmaster could say anything. "As Padfoot."

"Yes!" Sirius cried, rather like a small boy who got his way after months of whining, and quickly stood up. "I'll just go get my things. I'll be right back!"

"Harry," Dumbledore said seriously. "Was that entirely wise?"

"Probably not, but I think he's been a prisoner for long enough. Would you like to join us as well, Professor Lupin?" Harry asked thoughtfully. He wasn't sure if he would need the man's council just yet, but he would probably need it later and it would be useful if Lupin was familiar with at least some of his plans when the time came.

"Well, I suppose if the headmaster doesn't mind," Remus said, smiling while looking between Dumbledore and Harry. "Don't you have some things here that you want to pack and bring along, though, Harry?"

"Ah, yes, the books. You're absolutely correct. And I need to change my clothing, I dare say. These robes feel… clumsy. Excuse me, gentlemen," the aviator said and went to pack as well. He exchanged the robes with his proper uniform, sighing a bit as he straightened the lapels and smoothed a hand over the sleeves. It had felt decisively _strange_ to wear something with an ankle length hem.

Thankfully, he didn't have that many things – just his books, which he tied together with a string and then carried out of the room that had been his during his stay in Grimmauld Place. Sirius was likewise ready when he returned to the drawing room, carrying a sack of something with him, which he was handing over to an exasperated looking Remus.

"You know, as Padfoot you won't be needing clothing?" the werewolf asked.

"Well, I might change back behind closed doors," Sirius defended himself, grinning at Harry. Then, without further ado, Sirius crouched down and changed shape, causing Laurence to take two hasty steps backwards.

"He's an animagus," Harry explained. "It's a skill that wizards can learn, to change their shape into that of an animal."

"Ah yes… I believe it was mentioned in the introductory book," the Navy officer agreed, though he looked at the great black dog at their feet somewhat uneasily.

Harry patted his shoulder consolingly. "You will get used to it," he promised and then turned to Dumbledore. "Shall we go? Will we be flooing to your office, sir?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of the Three Broomsticks. The walk back to the castle will give you a chance to take a look at the grounds," the headmaster said.

"Yes, that would be most suitable. After you, sir."

The pub of the Three Broomsticks was as Harry remembered it, if a bit emptier. Homely, cosy, with several tables and an atmosphere of warmth and hospitality. He felt a momentary spike of something that was almost some sort of belated homesickness. Why hadn't he missed the place in the other world, its warmth and welcome? It felt now as if he should have.

"Madam Rosmerta, my dear," Dumbledore greeted the barkeeper as she came forward curiously. "I apologise for bumbling in as we did. I hope we're not any trouble."

"No, none at all, headmaster, of course not," she assured brightly, smiling. "Are you and your companions – good Merlin, that's a big dog," she added, as Sirius came through the fire, nearly knocking Harry over. "So," she recovered herself. "May I bring you anything?"

"No, I'm afraid we're only coming through on our way to the castle," Dumbledore apologised to her. "But perhaps a case of butterbeer to go?"

"I'll get you one," Rosmerta said but didn't move, eyeing Harry and Laurence in their uniforms curiously, before her eyes widened. "Good heaven – Harry Potter?" she asked, taking an involuntary step forward. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter!"

"Thank you," Harry said with a mild smile.

"Are you heading back to Hogwarts so late in the year? Well, of course you must be, having missed so much schooling. Might I expect to see you here one weekend or another?"

"I am afraid I am going to be rather busy, my dear lady, but if occasion permits I would be delighted," Harry promised. "Right now, however, we must be off."

"Yes, indeed," Dumbledore added, glancing back as Remus, the last of their party, came through the fireplace. "So, if you kindly could get the butterbeer, I'd be most obliged…"

After Dumbledore paid for the drinks and promised Rosmerta that he'd be coming around the next Friday if his business permitted, they headed out. Hogsmeade hadn't changed any more than the Three Broomsticks had. It was the same charming little village it had been the last time, with its shops and signs and oddly dated outlook that would have belonged better three hundred years into the past.

As they walked through the place, Harry explained to Laurence what it was. Though the man had read about Hogsmeade in his book, the introduction was obviously necessary and welcome. Soon, the Navy man looked around with newfound curiosity, though rather cautiously, probably not wishing to cause offence by staring.

Then, soon after, they were out of the village and making their way towards Hogwarts. With Sirius running about, going ahead and coming back, tongue lolling cheerfully as he loped off, Harry took in the surroundings with that same belated nostalgia. He hadn't missed the place, not really, and once he returned to his new, real home, he would continue to not miss it. But it was… charming, to see the place again. The familiar grounds, the forbidden forest in the distance, the mountains looming about – he had many good and bad memories of the lot.

"There," he said then to Laurence, pointing ahead when Hogwarts came into view. "That is the school. That is where we will be living from here on."

Laurence peered ahead, his eyes a little wide. "When a _castle_ was mentioned, I did not expect something quite like… that," he admitted. "It is enormous."

"It has been around some thousand years now, and has gone through several expansions and periods of remodelling," Dumbledore explained. "It used to have a wall and battlements and such, but I'm afraid they were sacrificed to expansion. Hm. What's this?" the old man wondered, trailing away while he shielded his eyes from the sunlight and peered ahead.

There was something white and swift coming forth. Harry narrowed his eyes to see better, and then his heart skipped a beat, as the white thing came close enough to be recognised. He managed to lift his arm only just in time, as Hedwig came swooping in – she probably would've landed on his head in her haste. And anger, he thought as she glared at him, clicking her beak and making disgruntled noises, shifting from one leg to the other in irritation.

"Good god," the aviator said, startled – and then felt guilty, very guilty. " _Hedwig_." He had forgotten all about her.

"She's been living in the owlery, I believe," Dumbledore said, looking a bit amused as Harry tried to lift a hand to stroke her, and she nearly bit his fingers.

"It's an… owl," Laurence said slowly, like he was trying to come to grips with it.

"She's my owl," Harry said, guilt vanishing to wonder. She was as beautiful as she had been the day Hagrid had given her to him – as neatly preened as ever, and as big. If not even more so. Hefting his arm up and down, Harry tried to measure her weight – she had put on some, that was for sure; but then she, like he, had always been in somewhat lean health, thanks to the Dursleys.

"I am sorry, my dear," Harry added, when the owl kept on glaring at him. "I would have brought you with me, if only I could have. Please do not be cross with me," he pleaded, and lifted his hand again. She glared at him, but allowed him to pet her and he felt an odd burst of warmth.

Was this something like what captains felt with their dragons? This, but magnified a hundredfold?

"Shall we continue?" Dumbledore asked after a moment, when Sirius barked at them impatiently from ahead.

"Yes. Yes, of course," Harry said, and lifted Hedwig to his shoulder instead. Her talons dug holes into his uniform – and into his skin – but right then he couldn't have minded her even if she had ripped his jacket to shreds. Well. Not _much_ , at any rate.

Her weight on his shoulder was unfamiliar but oddly comforting, as they made the rest of the way up to the castle of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It too had not changed much, except for some minute things – the side effects of the Tri-wizard tournament were gone, as did the stadium where Harry had fought the Horntail. The ground was blooming with the spring, with flowers wherever Harry looked, and the trees were verdant in all directions – even the sullen Whomping Willow was showing to an advantage.

"I believe that if you are intending to do any expansive battle training, the Quidditch pitch will do quite nicely," Dumbledore said. "However, the rest of the grounds are at your disposal once the school is out, of course – except for the vegetable fields. I am afraid Hagrid would not forgive me otherwise, nor the house elves."

"The Quidditch pitch will do, for a start," Harry agreed, looking around. "It is solid ground, is it not? If everything goes according to plans, I will be having the volunteers learning some skills that use the terrain to their advantage, and some of those skills, if possible, will require digging."

"What sort of skills?" Dumbledore asked curiously, and Harry, Remus and Laurence detailed what they had been talking about the day before, about trenches and walls and such things. The headmaster listened and nodded. "I do believe I can help you there, as far as the formation of the walls goes, though you will have to ask Professor Flitwick about the trenches – I do not know the spells for that. But the Quidditch pitch will suit fine, I believe, so long as whatever terrain modifications are done can also be undone."

"Of course," Harry nodded.

"Now, the tower we set aside for you has its own separate exits and entrances, which I believe you will be mostly using," Dumbledore continued. "I suppose you would be interested in seeing them."

"After you, headmaster," Harry nodded, and the tour started.

The tower was surprisingly spacious, with more than enough room for several dozens of people. Dumbledore had taken his suggestions, and instead of following the dormitory style of five persons per room, with bunk beds and less room left unused, each room could accommodate about a dozen people. Harry and Laurence both had their own rooms, of course, and Hedwig was quick to take imperious residence in Harry's room. There was no sort of common room in the manner of the GryffindorTower, but there was the dining hall – where meals would be served according to the number of people at the same time as the rest of the castle – plus two separate classrooms, which could also work as meeting places.

"The tower is of course joined in with the rest of the castle," Dumbledore explained, as they finished the tour at the base level, where there was a sort of entrance hall with three doors, one leading into the dungeons, one to the first floor of the castle, and one being the door they had entered through. "But I rather assumed that you intend to keep your volunteers and the Hogwarts students separate."

"Yes. Or rather, I want to keep the Hogwarts students from getting under foot too much," Harry said, eyeing the door leading to the corridors of the castle proper. It wouldn't do to seal it, but securing it… "I don't suppose we could have a portrait to guard the door?"

"Of course, I'll arrange it," Dumbledore promised, while Sirius sniffed about the corners of the entrance hall, tail wagging curiously. The headmaster eyed the dog worriedly for a moment before shaking his head. "Some other security measures might be called for as well."

"I'm thinking of a collar for Sirius with a Notice-me-not charm," Remus said thoughtfully, making the large hound turn to him with a wounded look.

"Perhaps, perhaps," Dumbledore said somewhat dubiously and shook his head again. "Oh, and before I forget – Dobby, if you please?" he asked, speaking to the air.

There was a noise somewhere between a pop and a crack, and a house elf in a somewhat clean pillow case appeared. Harry blinked with surprise, recognising him at once. It was the elf he had released from the Malfoy family at the end of his second year. And yes, now he remembered – Dobby had been hired to work at Hogwarts sometime in his fourth year, hadn't he? It felt like it had happened ages ago.

"Harry Potter sir!" the elf gasped, eyeing him with shock. "Oh, sir, it is… Dobby is so happy… welcome home, sir!"

"Thank you, Dobby," the aviator answered somewhat awkwardly and then noticed what had appeared alongside the house elf. A trunk. Specifically, his own, long forgotten school trunk.

"I thought you might want to have it now," the headmaster explained, smiling, and turned to the elf. "Dobby," Dumbledore said kindly. "Take Captain Potter's trunk to the bigger of the private rooms on the upper floor of the tower."

"Yes, sir, right away, sir," the house elf said, bobbing his head, and then he and the trunk were gone again, vanished to the upper floors.

"Thank you," Harry said, wondering what was in the trunk. School books he wouldn't need, clothing that wouldn't fit anymore… "I am not sure what use it will be, but I will see."

"Well, your broom and the invisibility cloak are in it, you might think of one or two uses for those," the headmaster said, winking. "Now, I think I shall leave you to familiarize yourself to your new accommodations. Remus, perhaps you might join me? There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you," he added, turning to the werewolf who nodded. Nodding as well, Dumbledore looked back at Harry. "Should you need any assistance, my office is only a fire call away. And of course, letters and notes will find me quite quickly, I should say, while we're both in the castle."

"Thank you, I will keep that in mind," the aviator said and then bowed. "I thank you for your forbearance. I know you do not need to oblige with my plans and needs, and it is most appreciated."

"Oh, think nothing of it. If nothing else, it will give the castle something new and perhaps not as worrisome to talk about, than Voldemort and the war," Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling. "Now I bid you good day, Captain, Lieutenant."

"Headmaster," Laurence nodded politely.

Soon after, Harry, Laurence, and Sirius in the shape of Padfoot were left alone in the entrance hall of the tower and there was a moment of silence as they all eyed their surroundings, taking in the carvings on the staircase baluster, and the stained glass of the windows. "It is a… very handsome tower," Laurence then noted, seeming at a loss of what else to say.

Harry chuckled, smiling at Sirius who had left the corner of the room in favour of jumping very nearly onto the window sill to peer outside. "I suppose it is," he said. "Do you wish to go outside, Sirius?" he asked. "We can leave the door open for you. So long as you are careful, of course."

The dog turned shining eyes to him and nodded eagerly, making Harry laugh and release him from the confinement of the tower, which left him and Laurence by themselves. With another chuckle, Harry turned to the stairs leading up. "It will become quite busy here, with us, Sirius, the volunteers and who knows what else. Busy and rather commonplace, I expect, and then we won't think twice about it."

"I rather doubt it, sir," the Navy officer murmured not quite under his breath, following. "Sir," he then raised his voice. "How many students are there in the castle, precisely?"

"Around two hundred, I think," the aviator answered thoughtfully. "They might become a bit of a problem, in the beginning. At Hogwarts, word travels fast, and I'd be surprised if the whole school didn't already know that we're here, and what we're on about. And young wizards and witches are a hopelessly curious lot." And there were his old classmates too, his housemates – Hermione, Ron, and the others…

"In case of interference, how are we to proceed?" Laurence asked cautiously.

"Hm. Well, there is no corporal punishment in Hogwarts, so there will be no violence towards the students," Harry answered firmly. "I suspect that Dumbledore will make sure that they don't get to be too much of a nuisance, and if not him then the heads of each houses. If not…" he trailed away, frowning. "It's probably for the best that we time the outdoor training of the volunteers to take place when as many students as possible are preoccupied with lessons of their own. And possibly some security measures will be necessary as well – magical shields between us and them to keep them away."

The lieutenant nodded, and they came to the dining hall – much smaller and infinitely less impressive than the Great Hall, with nothing like the charmed ceiling or the floating candles, but it had very wide, tall windows that lit up the room quite nicely.

"How long do you think training the volunteers will take?" Laurence asked, after they had eyed the silent, empty hall for a moment.

"Weeks, most likely. And if we are successful in our plans, there is every possibility that there will be more volunteers to come," Harry said rather grimly. "I am sorry, this will most likely take months."

"And before the deed is done and the war ended, there is no going home for us," Laurence said, with a surprising measure of casual conviction.

"No. We would need the aid of the Department of Mysteries for that, and they will not aid us until they have what they want," the aviator agreed and then sat down on the side of one of the long tables. They exchanged a grim look and then Harry smiled, shaking his head. "Well. It won't be all bad. It has been a very unique experience so far, you have to admit."

"Quite unique, yes, sir," the navy man said with a snort, and then stiffened, giving Harry a glance, no doubt wondering if he had stepped out of line.

"At ease, lieutenant," the aviator said, with a crooked smile. "It is a bit ridiculous, anyway. You have, what, eight years of seniority on me as far as service goes? Four years more as an officer – and, on top of that, we're from vastly different services." He snorted himself and shook his head. "We're in this together, so we might as well start _working_ together," he added, and then held out his hand – a move made rudely casual and borderline ridiculous by the fact that he was sitting at a table and they were already acquainted. "Harry Potter – _Harry_ , if you will."

"Ah," the lieutenant said, blinking, and then taking the hand. "William Laurence – Will, I think, should suit."

"Excellent," the aviator said and stood. "Let's have another look around, shall we, Will? There might be secret passageways hereabout – and I'd rather know about them now, rather than when someone has already put them to use."

The first look around didn't produce all that many secret passages, but after Harry had the time to look into his trunk – from where he had found yet another thing he had forgotten all about – they had another look. The Marauder's Map was not only good for finding the two hidden passages into the tower, but also in warning Harry of the upcoming ruckus. Judging by the looks of it, the whole class of fifth year Gryffindors were making their way towards the tower – and the entrance had yet to be blocked.

"Oh dear. I was hoping I'd have more time," Harry murmured, looking at the approaching cluster of named dots on the parchment map, making Laurence glance up from the rather small and uncomfortable trap door he had been examining. "Some of my former classmates are on their way here. You might as well stay here," he added, folding the parchment. "I should be able to handle them."

"Are you quite sure? What if an attack comes upon you?" Laurence asked, frowning slightly. The only time he had left Harry's side was when Harry had someone to accompany him, Dumbledore or Watkins or someone else.

"Well…" Harry frowned. He hadn't had an attack that whole day, which was a bit of a surprise really, as it meant that Horntail had been left to sleep through the day in peace. But if she had been left in peace so far, then probably no one would bother her at this late hour either. "I will call for you if I feel an attack coming. I should have enough warning about them now," the aviator promised. "Hopefully this won't take but a moment."

By the time he made it to the entrance hall, it was already full of people – familiar, yet strange all at once. Curious, he looked from one face to another, noticing changes and remembering similarities. In the busy life of the other world, he had forgotten many faces here, but now that he looked upon them, they came to him. Hermione and Ron were at the head of the group. Then there were Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnigan, and Dean Thomas, and near them were Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, and all the rest.

They had all grown, changed, and yet they were the same in a way. Same, only older, wearing the familiar sets of school robes he remembered them in, the school robes he had once worn. The most striking differences were in the way they had arranged their own appearances. Hermione's hair had been tied in a bun, Ron's hadn't changed, Neville's hair was shorter, Dean's had been tied into small braids, Dean had some badges attached to the front of his robes, Lavender's hair was in one thick braid, and Parvati's was in a high ponytail. Small, rather meaningless differences.

He didn't know whether to feel jealous or sympathetic.

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, rushing forward and up the stairs to him, crashing into his chest – only his reflexes kept her from sending him crashing backwards into the stairs. "It's true, you are here! It's so good to see you. It's so good to have you back!"

"Hermione," the aviator said, gently detaching her while the others came forward as well, turning the staircase crowded – all except for Ron, who somewhat awkwardly stayed at the foot of the stairs. There was a general murmur of greetings, "Good to have you back, mate!" and, "Blimey, what are you _wearing_?" and "Is that a sword?" and "What was the other world like?". There were a few claps to his shoulders and a lot of staring, and he found that he didn't really have any idea how to handle this.

They had been friends once. And he… had not missed them all that much.

While he was wondering what to say, how to properly greet them without seeming too… stiff or cold, Hermione was peering at his features. "Your face really is scarred! I saw your picture in the Prophet, but I wasn't sure if it wasn't a printing error or something," she said, touching the burn scar. "What happened?"

"A dragon," Harry answered with an awkward smile.

"The Hungarian Horntail did that?" Hermione asked, her eyes widening.

"Never you mind that," Harry said and shook his head before looking at the others. What was he supposed to say to them? Give him a stranger any day and he could know how to handle it – but these people _knew_ him, had known him, before. They remembered the way he had been. But Harry had changed since then, he knew he had; he had done everything in his power to change. The old Harry just had not fit in the other world and now… now he was different.

Hermione seemed to sense his discomfort because she spoke again while the others just looked at him expectantly. "I read the article of course and there are people talking about it. Some are saying it's all rubbish but… You didn't come back to Hogwarts as a student, did you?"

"Ah, no. Quite the opposite actually," Harry said, relaxing a bit. This he knew. This he could handle. "I am sorry; I can't say much about it, however. Word travels far too fast in Hogwarts and I need security more than anything."

"You're really going to fight the war, mate?" Dean asked, eyes wide and excited.

"That's why I am here, yes," Harry agreed with a smile.

"Do you think we could join?" Seamus asked, frowning a bit.

Harry hesitated a bit at that. It was their war and they were free to fight if they chose, of course, but… he certainly had no uses for them, not right now and hopefully not ever. "There is still time," he said instead and then glanced around them. They were still on the stairs. "How about we move to one of the classrooms here? There are some chairs there and it will be much more comfortable?"

They did, and while Harry led the crowd into the nearby classroom, he couldn't help but notice that while Hermione stuck to his side, Ron was lingering in the back uneasily. Smothering the urge to frown, Harry looked away, considering it. If his old friend was unhappy about his return, why come to see him at all? And Ron didn't seem unwilling or displeased, just awkward. Uncertain perhaps?

Well, they hadn't been on the best of terms when he had stumbled out of the world, so maybe that was it.

Settling into the classroom, Harry leaned on the teacher's desk while his old classmates took seats near him, on the desks and chairs, a few dragging theirs closer. "So, what was the other world like? And why are you dressed like that?" Lavender asked excitedly, Parvati grinning at her side as the two girls looked him up and down.

"This? This is just something I picked up, it’s fairly common wear in the other world," Harry said as nonchalantly as he could while Hermione blinked and then frowned at him. "As for the other world," the aviator continued, before she could interject, "it is much like this one. The time is different, however. It was a little like travelling back in time, in a way…"

In the next ten minutes or so, he satisfied their little questions with snippets of information. No, there hadn't been any magic at all, and yes he did realise how awful that might be to some. And yes, it was a sword at his side, a cutlass to be precise, Spanish make; and yes, he knew how to use it. What he had been doing, oh, this and that, whatever he had to, trying to blend in…

"You know, that get up looks a bit like one of those old uniforms," Seamus said thoughtfully, looking at his green coat. "Muggle military, you know."

"It was just the style," Harry assured him. "I grew used to wearing it. It is easier than robes, at times."

He couldn't satisfy all their questions and a good four fifths of his answers were lies, and the rest of the time he had to plea being unable to comment due to the war, and so on. In the end, his old classmates got enough gossip material to satisfy their curiosity and those who didn't, grew bored hearing him telling them he couldn't tell them anything. When someone noted that it'd be time for dinner soon, they began getting up, preparing to leave.

All but Hermione, who threw a look at Ron who lingered back as well, awkward but determined. The rest of the students seemed to realise what they intended, because they made their exit even faster, bidding Harry welcome home once more and telling him they'd see him around.

Then it was Harry alone with Hermione and Ron, and after the door closed behind the other students, the atmosphere grew decisively awkward. Harry looked between his two old friends, and then forced the tension out of his shoulders. "Has the Order informed you of my plans?" he asked.

"Not really. Mrs. Weasley and Sirius told us some, in letters, but nothing really clear. They can't, really, not through owl post. There is this absolutely _horrible_ teacher here and…" Hermione shrugged uneasily and looked at him, up and down, taking in the lapels of his suit, the wear of his sword hilt. "It's not just a style, is it? That's way too neat, too well made, too worn, too… It's not just a style. It _is_ a uniform."

"Yes, it is. I am in the military service in the other world. That is why I am here now, at Hogwarts, to put my experiences to use. I am going to be training some people to work as a military force in this war," Harry agreed and straightened a bit. "But that is not what I meant. My plans for this war aside, it is the plans I have for after it that matter," he added and looked at his two old friends. "Once this war is over, I will go back to the other world."

Ron's eyes widened a bit at that while Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "Go _back_?" she whispered.

"Yes. I made my home there," the aviator said and smiled sadly at her. "I'm not saying this to be unkind. I just want you to understand that however things will go, my time here will be limited. Either this war will kill me, or I will win it and then leave. Either way, I will not be here for long, certainly not indefinitely," he added, and while Hermione stared at him with a dumbstruck expression, he turned to Ron. "So I do not have time for hesitation."

The redhead flushed a bit at that, looking away and scowling at the tables for a moment before lifting his head again. "Mate –" he started awkwardly. "About… about the things I said, back then, back before –"

"Were said _then_ ," Harry supplied, looking at him closely, wondering. They had been fighting when he and Horntail had crashed, and never gotten the chance to make up. Harry hadn't had the time to think about it too much, but Ron… had he been fretting over it since? "Don't worry about it," the aviator added. "It was long ago."

Ron relaxed a bit, still looking uneasy, but relieved.

"You're really going to go back? Why?" Hermione asked again, stepping closer to Harry. "But you said that there isn't any magic there."

"I don't need magic to live. If anything, I lived better without it. I liked my life better. I'm sorry," he answered. "But I am either going back or dying in the attempt."

She frowned, looking at his face closely before sighing, still looking troubled but seeming to figure out that arguing wouldn't get her anywhere. "And you're going to be busy with this war too," she murmured. "I guess we won't have much time to catch up."

"Hopefully at some point. Right now, this will demand my full attention," Harry admitted and looked from one to the other. Hermione and Ron were looking at each other, and he would have to be blind not to see how dissatisfied they were. By what? His disinclination to include them, his manners, his secrecy?

"I am sorry," he said again, not sure what else to say. They were starting to see that he wasn't the same person he had been, and they didn't know how to take it. And he couldn't soften the blow because he needed them, and everyone else, to see it. It was the only way he'd ever be taken seriously. "It has been a while. Things have… changed."

"Yeah," Ron murmured and then smiled. "But it's good to see you, mate. Mum's been fretting like mad and it's nice to know that you didn't die in a ditch."

"You've grown," Hermione added, reaching to touch Harry's shoulders. "And you've been working out too," she added in awe, trailing her hands down his shoulders and squeezing the biceps, as much as she could anyway. "Not much like the beanpole from before."

Harry smiled, a little sadly, taking her hands and squeezing them. "I _have_ missed you," he admitted softly. Not much, not all the time, and eventually he had just forgotten, but… he had.

They parted soon after, all the things they could comfortably say having been said, and the rest being too awkward to tackle on the first meeting. And even to them Harry didn't dare to tell much, not about his plans, nor about the war. Though he knew he couldn't keep things secret for long, he wanted to keep them secret for as long as he could. The element of surprise was very slight, thanks to the Ministry's insistence on publicity, but he would hold onto what little of it he could.

So, putting aside the thoughts of what his friends had been doing in his absence, he headed out of the classroom and back up the stairs, where Laurence was waiting for him, looking nervous. "My apologies, Will," the aviator said. "It took a while longer than I expected."

"None are required, sir," the man assured, but he seemed a bit more at ease, finding that he hadn't had an attack.

"Harry," the aviator corrected. "Now, come. We have a schedule to plan for tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofread by Tsuyuhime, many thanks


End file.
